


Stay awake and remember (my name)

by lisbei



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Timelines, Animal Abuse, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Catholic Bucky Barnes, Catholic Steve Rogers, Complete, Happy Ending, Hydra (Marvel), M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Endgame, Suicide, because bucky, eventually, laboratory context
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-03-17 10:01:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 55,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18963004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lisbei/pseuds/lisbei
Summary: Bucky isn't doing too well right now. His best friend (or, the man he loved - but Bucky ain't one for dramatics, so he'll just keep sayin'friend)decided to live an entire life without him, the US government wants to imprison or kill him, HYDRA might still be around, and he's displaced in time. Again.Good news is, he's not completely alone, at least for the moment. And when he has to go on the run again, he'll find out that help comes from the most unexpected places.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This starts immediately following the end of Avengers: Endgame.  
> So, BEWARE: SPOILERS FOR ENDGAME!

It’s going to be ok. It’s going to be ok, Bucky thinks, as he watches Sam lifting the shield, as he catches Sam’s eye, and gives a slight nod. Everything’s fucked, but it’s going to be ok.

Bucky turns to look at Banner – who isn’t Banner anymore, or only Banner, or something that he hasn’t really understood because he wasn’t listening – who’s busy doing something with his weird machine. Well, _busy._ Busy not meeting his eyes, otherwise Bucky would notice the look in them, one of . . . pity?

He looks at the bench again, and Sam is still talking. Talking to Steve. Who is that man, really? Is it Steve? Bucky takes half a step forward, changes his mind, backs away. He can’t. He can’t do this. Even though he knew it was going to happen – not because Steve told him anything, but because he knows Steve – he can’t.

There’s no going back, now. His Steve is gone. Gone for good. He turns his back on the heart-warming scene near the lake and sneers a little, trying to regain some of that restraint he used to have. But that feels like so long ago.

When Bucky arrives at the lakeside house, he sees that the Wakandan contingent are ready to leave. Shuri beckons, and he approaches, reluctant.

“Sergeant Barnes,” she starts, and he raises an eyebrow. “Bucky,” she amends, grinning. “Are you coming back with us?”

Bucky glances at T’Challa, standing, regal, behind her, and the Black Panther nods. But Bucky doesn’t think that’s an option for him. He tried that, and the war found him. He shakes his head, lowering his eyes so as not to see the disappointment in Shuri’s. He’s almost toppled by a surprise attack-hug, and it’s a good thing that the confusion and madness of the last few days have deadened him a little, because otherwise Shuri would have been flying out over the lake.

“Sorry,” she says. “I know better.” Bucky misses his sisters, a feeling which attacks like a spear through the side. He wonders if Steve saw them when he went back: Bucky's family, his ma, his sisters. Bucky resolves never to ask.

“We have a gift for you,” Shuri continues, handing over an envelope. In it there’s a passport, the outside embossed with fancy golden lettering: Kingdom of Wakanda. It’s in the name of one ‘James Incguka’, but it’s Bucky’s picture there. He looks up, puzzled.

“If you ever want to return, James.” The king is smiling at him. “You are an honorary citizen of Wakanda.”

Bucky looks aside to keep the tears away, and catches a glimpse of Sam stalking towards him, shield over one arm, determination written all over his face. Close call. Emotional outburst averted.

“Where the hell did you go, huh?” Sam looks around him, blinks. “Hey, everyone. Hi?”

“I see congratulations are in order, Captain,” T’Challa intones, calm as ever.

For the first time since Bucky has known him, Sam is lost for words. He opens his mouth and closes it again, and Bucky is going to enjoy comparing him to a landed fish, later. Though he’s not sure. Do they still have that kind of relationship? Did they ever? In the end, Sam settles on a blinding smile.

“Thanks, your majesty. Princess,” he adds with a grin, and Bucky, once older brother to three girls, senses the melting process happening within Shuri. Oh, hell no, he thinks. Much too old for you. He and T’Challa lock eyes over her head, and he sees the same determination in the king’s eyes. Okoye only rolls hers.

“Though I don’t know that I can do much with this,” Sam adds, pointing to the shield. “I think I gotta find a place to live, first.” Sam looks at Bucky. _“We_ gotta find a place to live.”

Oh, so he’s a part of this thing, whatever Steve decided is going to happen here. Bucky bristles, feeling rebellious. Maybe he doesn’t _want_ to be an Avenger, or whatever they want to call the leftovers, the second string. He senses that Sam is trying to communicate something, but Bucky refuses to meet his eyes.

T’Challa is smiling, though, and Shuri is bouncing on her heels in excitement, quelled only by a look from her brother.

“I think we can help you with that, Captain Wilson.”

Sam looks all at sea, and Bucky is asking himself what they did, these angels that he clearly doesn’t deserve.

“The elders and I decided that it is important Wakanda has a presence in the United States, in case something like another alien invasion, or restrictive legislation endanger the planet again. Logically, this would involve whatever replaces the Avengers Initiative-“

“We bought Avengers Tower!” Shuri bursts out, unable to wait any longer. “And there’ll be an embassy, and a lab, and apartments for the Avengers so they can go on missions . . . “

T’Challa crosses his arms and sighs. “As I was trying to say; yes, Ms Potts agreed to sell the Tower, on one condition – that the Artificial Intelligence remain in place, as a memorial to its creator.”

Bucky glances to the side. Sam is . . . well, lost for words is a mild way of putting it.

“Your majesty . . . highness? I can’t accept . . . I mean-” Yeah, Bucky thinks. That’s not going to work.

T’Challa just approaches Sam, puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezes. “Please do me this favor, Captain. We are all part of the same group now – the returned. We all must find a way to reintegrate into this life. It would give me immense pleasure if you settled in what will be a part of Wakanda in the U.S.”

Bucky smirks. No-one can resist T’Challa’s charm. He only remembers trying once, after he first arrived, and quickly giving up.

That dazed look is starting to look at home on Sam’s face. He nods weakly. “I’ll ask Wanda and the others if they want to join us.”

“Is _Steven_ going to be joining us?” T’Challa’s question seems innocent on the surface, but Bucky knows it isn’t.

Sam looks down, a tell, if Bucky ever saw one. “The trip to restore the infinity gems took a lot out of him . . . physically. That’s why he decided . . . “ Sam trails off, looking at the shield.

T’Challa’s lips quirk into a smile. He nods, regally, as always. He shakes hands, first with Bucky, then with Sam.

“Your new home is waiting for you; James . . . Captain Wilson.”

Shuri gives Bucky a hug, then acts cooler with Sam, with a nod, and a farewell “Sup.”

Okoye quirks an eyebrow, bangs her lance on the ground twice, and she and the Dora file into the aircraft, and they’re gone. Bucky misses them already. When he looks up, Sam is glaring at him.

“Why’d you leave, man?”

Bucky shrugs with one shoulder. “Don’t tell me he wanted to talk to me.”

Sam looks like he’s chewing on the inside of his mouth. “I thought you were friends.”

Bucky manages to stop himself from shrugging again. It always hurts in what remains of his left shoulder.

“So did I.” He blinks, annoyed at himself. The hell? Since when does he let it all hang out? Romanoff would punch him for that.

“Hey, is it about the . . . this?” Sam is shaking the shield, which he’s resting on the grass. Bucky knows it’s heavy as hell. His brain registers what Sam's asking.

Bucky controls an instinctive eye-roll with an effort. “Is there _anything_ about my character, which makes you think I want an actual literal target on my back?”

Bucky knows he would have said no, if asked. But he wasn’t asked.

Sam shrugs. “That doesn’t mean you didn’t wanna be asked.”

Fuck me, Bucky thinks. Is everything written on his face? Can Sam read his thoughts? “Still would have said no, pal. You’re the captain, now.”

Sam’s eyes narrow. “I _know_ you know that’s from a movie.”

“Movie?” Bucky answers, his tone puzzled. “Oh, you mean a talkie! That’s what we called them, back in our-“

Sam pokes him in the chest. “Shut your goddam mouth. You’re not gonna get me with that old-timer bullshit.”

Bucky grins. Then he remembers something. Or someone. “Is Steve still sitting on that bench?” Bucky may not be happy about the situation, but he still can’t let an old man die of exposure. His ma would rise from her own grave to belt him one.

“Nah, called him an Uber. He’s been living in a retirement home in the area for the last year, or so.”

Bucky nods. “Yeah, yeah. Keeping his head down, taking the long road. That sure sounds like Steve.”

“Fuck you, man.” Sam rubs his eyes. “I know that doesn’t sound like Steve. But I had to read between the goddam lines to get anything out of him. He didn’t even wanna tell me who he married.”

Once, when he was still _under,_ Bucky got shot in the stomach. Well. It wasn’t _Bucky._ He’d been the asset, or, as Pierce called him at the time, the liability. He remembers lying there, stomach on fire, vision fading, as his various handlers and Pierce debate the cost-benefit ratio of saving his life versus letting him bleed out. He also remembers the initial shot, the armor piercing bullet that got through his Kevlar, like a hot knife punching through his gut. It felt very much like this.

“Married, huh.” Bucky tries to keep what he’s feeling out of his voice, but the expression on Sam’s face tells him he’s failed.

“Shit. I’m sorry, man. I didn’t know.” Sam isn’t even looking at him anymore, like Bucky’s face is an open wound.

He wants to deny it, shrugs instead. “Neither did he.” It’s an old hurt, one which he’s practiced in ignoring. “So, he got his da- his lady, huh? Agent Carter?”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “You think that’s who it was? Wait a second – we went to her funeral! You’re telling me Steve was there all along? Or was it another timeline?”

“Don’t ask me – they only sent me after Stark because he developed a new version of the serum." Not that he really remembers it. He mainly remembers what was in the files Romanoff leaked online. A few things even read like they happened to someone else; not the torture, though. That was all his. "They never said a damn thing about anyone in SHIELD, unless they got close to HYDRA. Carter never did.”

Also, Bucky thinks, it’s not like he was kept up to date with whatever was going on when he was on ice. He was only woken up, sent on his way, and frozen again. He didn't even remember the Starks until he saw that video.

Bucky clears his throat. “So, we’re off to New York, huh?”

“Today? Wait, you mean, _now?”_

“Yeah, Sam. I don’t think the lady whose in-laws I murdered is happy that I’m in the same house as her daughter.”

Leaving is easier said than done. Oh, Bucky knows that he can haul ass and get out of dodge as soon as he likes – the backpack filled with a few belongings that the Wakandans brought with them is already waiting for him near the front door – but no-one wants Sam to leave. Also, they’re finding it hard to understand about Steve.

“You’re saying he left us?” Wanda's eyes seem to grow in size, her lower lip trembling. 

“No! I mean, yeah, but he’s back now – buddy,” Sam answers, close to a breakdown, “some help here?”

Bucky, who’s wondering if he misheard, flinches slightly as a few pairs of sharp eyes turn to stare at him. It’s just Wanda, the kid in the red and blue tights, Bruce, Scott, and Stark’s lady in the room. Everyone else is long gone, though, in the case of the raccoon, not without gazing longingly at Bucky’s left arm. He chews on his lower lip for a few seconds.

“Steve went all over . . . to return the infinity stones. Then he went back to . . . the forties?” Bucky glances at Sam, who returns it in a ‘your guess is as good as mine’ glare. “The past. To be with . . . Peggy Carter, I guess. He took the long road back. Literally.”

He doesn’t know Wanda very well, but he doesn’t need to know her to recognize that expression – utter betrayal. Banner is nodding, the kid just looks confused, and – Potts – her name was? Her eyes are turning into chips of ice. Bucky doesn’t know why – maybe it’s dawning on her that the whole business of going back in time to defeat Thanos could have been done better? Maybe with Stark surviving? Bucky doesn’t know. And he never will, because her little girl chooses that moment to storm in, demanding her mother’s attention.

Once mother and child leave, Sam quickly tells the ones left about the Tower. Wanda and Banner agree to join them, while Lang has family in San Francisco, and the kid says he prefers living in Queens. Bucky suppresses an eye-roll. No-one who’s lived through the Depression like he has would turn down a fancy Manhattan apartment, even if the guy who built it had hated Bucky’s guts.

A week later, Bucky wonders if he’s made the right decision. Stark may be dead, but the fancy computer that’s running the Tower is very much alive. It scares the crap out of him, that everyone else treats it like it’s their friend. Or maybe he’s read too many junk novels. Wanda decides to go to college, but first she has to get her SATs, so she’s found an online study group. As a refugee from Sokovia, there’s some compensation coming her way. So, she’s ok, Bucky thinks, trying not to sound bitter, even in his own head.

As for Captain America, turns out that Steve just handing the shield over to Sam like it’s nothing, is not the way the US government does things. Especially as they already have someone waiting in the wings for the job, some guy called John Walker. Still, he’s prepared to work with Sam. Exactly no-one is prepared to work with Bucky.

Sam is explaining this to Bucky, walking up and down, voice getting louder, gestures bigger. Bucky’s been watching him, not adding much.

“Give them time, Sam,” he interrupts.

Sam turns to him with a glare. “That’s what they’re doing, playing for time! Stalling!”

Bucky nods, slowly. It has occurred to him that maybe they aren’t going to welcome him with open arms, unless the arms are holding handcuffs and leg shackles.

“Steve isn’t any help – all he talks about are the old days – and Fury leaves me on hold for hours, then tells me he can’t do anything!” 

Bucky wonders at this brave new world, where he’s the calm one. “You can hardly blame him – I blew him up and shot him. A lot.”

“Man, it’s like you want to go to jail.” Sam has stopped gesturing and is now glaring at Bucky like it's his fault all this is happening. Which, it kind of is.

Still, jail? For him? Bucky can’t hold back a snort of laughter. “C’mon, Sam,” he says, answering Sam’s offended look. “I’m never gonna see the inside of a prison cell.”

The pain in Sam’s eyes makes him wish he kept his mouth shut. Sam’s looking round him, wildly, as if there’s a solution in the beautiful airy sitting room they’re in. Everything’s glass and chrome. The wall to wall windows initially terrified Bucky. Even now, he finds his fist clenching when he thinks of how vulnerable they are, how exposed.

“You could call Shuri, ask for asylum in Wakanda-“

“No!” Bucky interrupts Sam, digging his fingers into a cushion, which pops under the pressure. “I’m not getting them into any more trouble because of me. I’m not – I’m not worth any of this,” he concludes, in a mumble.

He looks down, not wanting to see the agreement on Sam’s face.

Sam sits next to him on the couch. “That’s not true and you know it.”

Bucky looks up in surprise. There’s no impatience in Sam’s expression, no annoyance.

“On a scale of one to ten, how desperate do you feel right now?”

Bucky frowns. “Zero? I just feel tired, mostly. Been sleeping a lot.”

“Have you tried getting out of here? Walking, seeing the sights, what’s changed, what hasn’t?”

Bucky bites back an immediate refusal. What, like the US government won’t have ten agents on him at every street corner? Still, so what? Maybe he can do something. He’s been acting like he’s still on the run, which he isn’t. They know where he lives. Even though he can, in theory, just disappear, then what? He still winces whenever he remembers that apartment block in Bucharest – people lived there, got their lives fucked over, because of him. No-one deserves that.

Sam is waiting for an answer, and Bucky wonders when he got so patient.

“Yeah. Yeah, I can do that. I was thinking, maybe I need a job? Though I don’t know what I can do, besides . . . you know.”

Sam’s eyes narrow. Bucky knows what he’s thinking – besides the fact that not letting him go out on missions is boring as hell, Sam is getting a stipend for his work. Bucky isn’t. The Tower provides a roof over his head, and food on his plate, but he’d like to be able to buy something to wear that isn’t the clothes on his back.

“I can-” Sam starts, then he glares, pointing a finger at Bucky. “Do not say no before I even suggest it. I can lend you some cash, for now, and then we’ll see about- listen, the Army can pony up something, seeing as you were a P.O.W. they never even tried to look for.”

Bucky snorts. “If the Army does anything, it’ll be a court-martial for conduct unbecoming – and I’ve been reading up. They got some fancy code nowadays, turns out I can get the firing squad for some of the shit that I did when I was under.”

Sam’s lips thin. “We’ll see about that,” he answers, folding his arms.

Bucky tries to hold back a grin, fails. “You practice that move in front of a mirror?”

“You’re a fucking asshole, you know that?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and the words slip out. “Why do think Steve fucked off back to the forties?”

He winces. Man, he used to be so much better at this. Nothing ever affected him. Granted, he used to get his brain fried on the regular, too. Ever since Steve _left,_ Bucky feels like a body on a slab, rib-cage cracked open, insides on display. Sam’s lips are pressed together in a thin line, his eyebrows almost meeting.

“Whatever made Steve do what he did, it’s on him, not you. We make our own choices.”

Something clicks for Bucky. “You’re angry. At Steve.”

“Of course, I’m angry!” Sam rubs the back of his head. “I followed him like he was Jesus or something. I went on the run for two years, I have family _here,_ didn’t care. Then I’m falling apart in a goddam forest, which hurt like a motherfucker, by the way, and five seconds later I come back, fight the same battle all over again. Steve tells me Nat’s dead, I’ll explain everything when I come back, he comes back and he’s the goddam crypt-keeper!”

Bucky doesn’t know who this crypt-keeper is, but if he’s a guy who looks about a hundred, then . . . yeah. Sam’s run out of breath, or steam. Bucky’s mind latches on one thing.

“What happened to the Widow, anyway? Who the hell took _her_ down?” He regrets it instantly, because Sam’s eyes turn shiny, and he looks away. Bucky gets it. He’s not the only one who feels like he’s lost everything.

Sam shrugs. “No-one can really explain it. Tired of asking. The only one who really knows is Hawkeye, and ain’t nobody bothering Hawkeye, oh no. He’s _retired,_ now.”

Bucky's lips twitch. He knows how to get Sam to snap out of it. “You sound like a little girl didn’t get asked to the dance by her beau.”

Sam’s eyes narrow. “That’s it. We’re gonna spar, so I can kick your century-old ass. Then I’m drinking your ass under the table.”

“In your dreams, bird-man. And stop talking about my ass.”

“That’s _Captain_ bird-man to you, old-timer.”

Bucky lets himself be pulled off the couch, and the afternoon and evening passes quicker than usual. Before he knows it, it’s midnight, and he’s got Captain America’s arm slung over one shoulder, as he maneuvers them to Sam’s apartment.

“FRIDAY? Look, I know you’re listening – just open his door. I don’t know where his key-card is, and I ain’t feeling for it in his pants.”

“Affirmative, Sergeant Barnes.” The voice is icy. Could it be that it blames him, somehow, for Stark’s death? But that’s ridiculous, it’s just a program.

The door clicks open, and Sam mumbles something in Bucky’s ear. Bucky ignores him, and half-drags, half-walks Sam into his bedroom, wrestling him onto the bed, on his side. He goes to the kitchen for a glass of water, makes a protesting Sam drink it, and then makes him lie down again.

Bucky doesn’t feel drunk, even though he matched Sam shot for shot. He remembers when he started feeling that way, a little pub in London, Steve looking like a slab of beef, Carter ignoring him. He remembers drinking whisky after whisky, desperate to lose consciousness, but it never happened. Fuck the serum.

The next day, Bucky starts acting on Sam’s advice. He reluctantly accepts some cash, promising to pay back every cent. He could have got a credit card, he knows, but residual Winter Soldier paranoia won’t let him.

Not that it makes a difference – there’s a tail on him as soon as he leaves the Tower, and that one soon becomes three, then four. They’re all really good, but he’s been trained by the kind of people who reward failure with a death sentence. He ignores them, though. If ever he needs to go off the grid, it’s best that they’re taken by surprise. So, he can’t show them that they’ve already been made.

He starts a routine – he goes for walks in the park, he visits the Public Library, he does the tourist thing for a while. The fourth time he passes a blown-out building which never really recovered from any of the disasters which happened in New York in the last decade or so, he decides to see if he can get work there. The harassed-looking people with the clip-boards exchange looks.

One of them starts with “We aren’t hiring-“

The woman interrupts. “We can’t pay you. We’re all volunteers, here.”

God Bless America, Bucky thinks. Someone’s paying the salaries of all the morons tailing him, but rebuilding people’s homes is a lesser priority.

“That’s ok,” he answers. “I can’t commit to coming every day.”

Bucky can sense the surveillance team taking up various positions behind and in front of him. He’s careful not to catch their eye. If they know they’ve been made, they might even panic and try to take him in. He’s not sure how he’ll react to that.

They all exchange names – Martin, Jameela, and he volunteers his own as James. It comes out spontaneous-like, and Bucky isn’t sure why. Maybe he wants some time before the scared looks come out. They send him to an uncleared patch, and he sets to work, steadily shifting rubble, things which can’t be done using machinery.

Turns out that the process of returning over three billion people isn’t without snags, like for example, a child materializing in front of a car, which swerves, and plows straight into a building. This happens in more than one place, and Bucky gets used to looking for these places, getting into a routine. He wonders at the tension in people’s faces when he introduces himself all over again, until he catches a glimpse of his reflection in a storefront. He looks like a goddam hobo, with an out of control beard, and too-long hair under a ball-cap.

Bucky’s first impulse is to race off to a barber shop he discovered on his wanderings, an old-fashioned place even by his standards, but then he pauses. The surveillance on him is down to two people. Ideally it would be down to zero before he decided to make any major changes to his appearance. Later, he thinks that it never occurred to him, that no surveillance was just as bad a sign as too much.

In fact, when he goes out one day and senses no-one on him, he only feels relief. He decides to test it for a few days; changes his habits. Goes further afield, in ever widening circles. He knows what he’s looking for, though he can hardly believe it still exists.

See, it’s been almost ten years since HYDRA fell, almost ten years since Insight and the Triskelion. SHIELD is back in a lesser capacity, Fury is back as its Director, though the whole thing is more secretive than ever. Still, Sam tells him stuff – his anger at Steve’s secrecy ensures that he never hides anything from Bucky. Anyway, it’s not in Sam’s nature.

However, even though he tunes out a lot of what Sam says, a few things do stick – like Sam is sure that there are problems which his new team isn’t tackling, things which flourished in the five years following the snap. Bucky can’t believe it, not really – weren’t the Avengers around? Hadn’t they been a team? Apparently not, he realises, as Sam vents about Natasha liasing with people all over the world and beyond, putting out fires, with Rhodes and this Danvers lady, while Steve, Stark, and Banner did . . . what, exactly?

Never mind, Bucky thinks. He wants to find out for himself, and he will, once he’s sure that no-one’s following him. He lets a week pass, and sets out, looking for old HYDRA safe-houses first. There’s a list of addresses in his head, still all there, no matter how hard he tries to scrub them out. That’s why he would be ideal as a team member in this new thing Sam’s got going on, but he finds himself reluctant to even mention it.

He sets out to an address in Queens, but that’s just a hole in the ground surrounded by safety tape. People are already ignoring the tape, and the crater is turning into a garbage dump. The remaining bricks are blackened, showing signs of an explosion. Maybe a helicopter crashed, or something, he thinks. He’s half relieved, half annoyed – he came out here for nothing. But does he really want there to be something left of HYDRA? Maybe it’s because he wants to feel useful, like he has something to contribute.

He resists the temptation to investigate other locations on the same day. Best not to vary his routine too much. That’s sure to arouse suspicion. A few days later, he wanders through the Village, sure he remembers a fancy office block with a HYDRA complex under it, like an anthill. It’s still there, but he can hardly waltz in and ask for access to the hidden labs. Also, the fronts for HYDRA were always well-crafted – the people working for the legit side never knew what was going on under their feet. Or at least, most of them didn’t know. Enough to keep up the charade. So maybe the office block still exists, but the HYDRA base underneath it is empty.

This time he’s too annoyed to wait a few days, so he heads to Harlem, where he knows about a condemned rowhouse, bricked up windows and all – a hidden safe-house. Bucky’s worried that he’s drawing attention to himself, but then remembers what he looks like – someone who routinely sleeps in a dumpster. No-one gives him a second glance as he wanders down the street. He manages to slip down to the stairs to the basement entrance, using his left hand to pry open a rusted metal plate. There it is, underneath – the glow of a lit-up keypad. Is it possible his code still works?

It does. With a faint click, the door opens slightly. He doesn’t touch it, just looks in through the gap. He gathers some of the dust lying on the ground, scattering it inside. Nothing. Not that he was worried about laser beams, really. Not with this kind of safe house. Still, better safe than sorry. He sneaks in, conscious of the thick layer of dust everywhere. The linoleum floor is warped where the rain came in, but otherwise it seems well-preserved.

He finds stairs to a higher floor but isn’t even going to try that – they can’t be secure, after all this time. So, he hopes that any kind of supplies left behind are down here. He looks around, tapping the brick walls. In the small kitchen, one sounds hollow. Left hand in a fist, hopes for the best, smashes through – yes, as he hoped, there’s a space behind the wall, and a duffel bag.

There’s money – a couple thousand dollars – and weapons. A Sig Sauer, a Glock 17, a Skorpion, each with a few boxes of ammunition. He’s hesitant to touch the guns at first, though that’s ridiculous – it’s not like they’re gonna infect him. He rummages deeper, finds some gun oil, a leather bundle of knives, a double-barrelled shotgun. He spreads the guns and knives on a tarp he finds bundled up in a corner. Might as well make sure everything is in working order, in case . . . in case of what? He chews on his lower lip, stops himself, then starts again. That was one thing they never managed to beat out of him. Not for lack of trying, though. No wonder they always put him in a mask.

When Bucky leaves the safe house, an hour later, his hands are covered in gun oil and he rubs them on his jeans. He resolves to shave the beard the very next morning. He needs to get his shit together- enough wandering around looking like a hobo.

A few days pass without incident, and he forces himself to stay away from the safe house, though it’s not easy. Just like it’s unlocked something in his brain, there’s a whole list of fake businesses scrolling down – offices, banks, auto-shops, all with HYDRA in back rooms, basements, underground warrens of labyrinthine corridors. He should investigate, he should tell Sam. He should do a lot of things. But he keeps coming up with excuses, and whoever is handling Sam is making it easy, keeping him busy with meetings, missions, and so on.

On a rare day when he’s not busy, Sam mentions that he’s working with Sharon Carter. Bucky wonders if he’s told her about Steve – from the pained expression on his face, the answer is yes. But it’s not like Bucky has a leg to stand on, in that regard. He hasn’t been to see Steve.

“Look, it’s not like he’s asked after me. Right?” It’s a day when Sam’s pleading looks have become too much for Bucky.

“No. But – wait, Bucky, come on. It would be good for him . . . for both of you.” Sam isn’t meeting his eyes.

Bucky sighs. He’s proud of that. They used to shock his balls for any involuntary sounds. Now he’s free, he can do what he likes.

“Why? Why would it be good for him?”

“I think he feels guilty – about leaving.”

There’s several responses which Bucky bites back. Took him long enough, is one of them. Or, the hell? I’m not a kid, or his dame. Shit, where did that come from? He must really be pissed off; the old lingo only comes out when he’s furious and trying to keep it in. He rubs his eyes and the back of his head instead. What’s the point? He’s only punishing himself. He misses Steve. He misses him a hell of a lot.

“Fine. The next time you go see the old folks, I’ll tag along.”

Sam grins. Bucky rolls his eyes. “I used to be a scary assassin dude, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re a marshmallow, now.”

Bucky leaves the Tower early the next day, determined to get to the Harlem safe house and retrieve the duffel bag, bring it all to Sam, lay his cards on the table. He still wants to take down what’s left of HYDRA – and it’s starting to feel like there’s a lot – but he can do it with Sam. Maybe if he’s the one providing the intel, they’ll let him tag along.

When Bucky’s phone starts ringing, he’s in the middle of an crazy fantasy in which he’s kicking the door in to a HYDRA base, Sam’s flying overhead, occasionally bouncing the shield off guards and lackeys, and then he’s mowing down the evil bastards whose faces he can still see in his nightmares. No matter that he’s pretty sure most of them are dead already.

It takes him a second or two to work out why his pocket is vibrating, and even then, he’s puzzled. It’s not like anyone’s ever called him on the fancy Stark Phone, which looks like nothing more than a thin slab of glass. He’s used mobile phones before, when he was under, but never anything that elaborate.

The number on the screen isn’t one he recognises. Sam, Wanda, Shuri and T’Challa are listed under their own names, anyway. He taps the icon to answer but doesn’t say anything. Shit. Why the hell did he answer? Now they can track him. It’s done. No regrets. 

“Sergeant Barnes.” Those rich Tipperary vowels could only belong to the computer running the Tower.

Bucky shivers, chewing on his lip. Still doesn’t speak. Is this it? Is this payback time for Stark?

“Two minutes ago, a STRIKE team arrived at the Tower, with a warrant for your arrest. They’re being denied entrance.” What the hell? Of all the possibilities he's imagined, this isn't one of them.

The screen on his phone dissolves into an image of the underground parking garage, where ten people carrying submachine guns are waiting, and a man in a suit is waving a piece of paper in the face of the two Wakandan security guards. Only, Bucky knows that the ‘security guards’ are actually Dora Milaje, undercover. The camera zooms in on one of them, lip curled in a sneer. He always got on well with Nailah - with all the Dora, really. 

Bucky starts to speak, clears his throat, which is seizing up. “What are they saying?”

“The Wakandans are pretending not to understand English. They just keep saying ‘No come in. Wait. Captain America.’” FRIDAY pauses.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“It’s occurred to me that we might have got off on the wrong foot.”

Bucky can feel his brows almost meet. _On the wrong_ – “You’re not really just a computer, are you?”

“No.”

Bucky chews on his lip some more, thinks aloud. “I could just go back, turn myself in.”

“If you do that, I’ve calculated an 85% chance that you’ll vanish into an undisclosed location.” The AI sounds cool and collected as she predicts his fate. Not like he wasn’t thinking that way either.

“What’s the other 15%?” But he already knows the answer.

“That they shoot you on sight.” There was a pause. “The Wakandans will try to protect you.”

“And they’ll get hurt,” Bucky said. “Or hurt someone. An international incident, great. Just what T’Challa needs.”

“I’ve been trying to contact Captain Wilson,” FRIDAY continues, “but his phone is switched off.”

“Yeah, Sam told me he had some planning meetings which would take him all day,” Bucky answers absently. He’s still trying to figure a way out of this mess without running, but he can’t.

“I could turn it on, remotely.” FRIDAY sounds hesitant, which is weird when you consider that she’s an all-seeing, all-knowing artificial intelligence.

“No! No.” Bucky’s been walking during this conversation, and he doesn’t stop. “Sam can’t be involved in any of this. Listen, can you connect me to Nailah?”

Buck’s pretty sure that all the Dora can take a phone call through an earpiece without changing expression. Or speaking.

“This is James.” He’s pretty much given up on getting anyone except Shuri to call him Bucky, so he’s going for the next best thing, even though it makes him feel weird. “You have to let them in. The situation is gonna escalate, and I don’t want that. Thank you for everything.”

FRIDAY hangs up for him, and he sighs. He’s almost at the safe house, and he needs to get rid of the phone before that. Even though Sam won’t want to track his phone, Bucky’s sure they have a warrant for that too. There’s just one more thing he needs to do, though.

“FRIDAY, can you record a message for Sam, for me?” He feels bad about just vanishing like that. It feels too much like what Steve did to them. Maybe if this had happened a few months ago, when he saw that ancient version of the man he loved on that bench, he would have been ready to go. But that feeling passed. And now . . .

FRIDAY interrupts his train of thought. “Ready to record.”

Bucky closes his eyes, takes a deep breath.

“Sam, I’m sorry. But I guess I don’t want to die just yet. Or go to jail. I found something, and I need to go handle it. I really wanted to do it with you, as a team. I think we could have worked well together. Maybe we will, one day.”

He stops, and FRIDAY takes it as a sign to stop recording, with a chime. There’s a dumpster up ahead, and he walks briskly in that direction, before pausing.

“How long will it take you to track this phone? I mean – how long can you stall for?”

“You need to smash it, Sergeant. Then I can stall for about . . . an hour? Perhaps. Otherwise the process only takes a few seconds.”

Buck nods. He doesn’t really want to destroy the phone – he’s become as addicted as everyone else on the goddam planet, it seems. But needs must when the devil drives, as his ma used to say. He sighs.

“Thanks for this, FRIDAY.”

He’s barely finished speaking when he uses his left hand to crush the thing into a mess of glass shards and tiny metal chips. He locates the SIM card and crumples it up. Then he doubles back, heading to the safe house, which he purposely overshot earlier. It wouldn’t fool anyone for long, but long enough for him to get the duffel bag and bug out.

Keep moving, always keep moving. That’s the secret of not getting caught. They only got him in Bucharest because he settled down, thought he was safe, thought he was _a person._ He should have known better, renting an apartment, leaving his go bags there, his notebooks. As soon as that newspaper guy made him, he should have taken to his heels and not stopped running till people spoke English again.

Now, Bucky knows better, but he’s in a worse situation. He isn’t in Europe where he could take a train to a whole other country or get in a car and drive – he’s on a fricking island in a heavily surveilled city. They’ll have facial recognition software looking for him, and they’ll find him. Or not. Maybe he can do some damage before they hunt him down. Damage to HYDRA, not the government, or the new SHIELD.

Though if HYDRA’s as deeply embedded as it used to be, all bets are off. These people – they took his life, and they’re still around. They made him into a monster, kept him in a cage, as everyone he loved died, as he lost his place in the world. They’re going to find out what happens when the monster breaks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I joked that I wanted to finish my other fic before Endgame sent me into a depression - I really didn't think it was going to be this bad.
> 
> Anyway - this isn't an Endgame fixit in that I don't have any theories in which old Steve isn't really Steve, or they'll be happy like that or whatnot. This continues from the end of the movie, with Bucky trying to make sense of this 'new normal' as it were. So the fixing is to the implications of the movie, rather than events inside it.
> 
> Also, if I didn't see it in the movie, it didn't happen. There was no conversation between Steve and Bucky re his plans. Bucky knew it, because he knows Steve. Still, even though he intellectually knew it, doesn't mean he was prepared for the emotional impact it was going to have on him.
> 
> Anyway, the word Ingcuka means 'Wolf' in Xhosa.  
> The title is from Everybody's Changing, by Keane.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the run, Bucky wants to take on what's left of HYDRA. They thought he was their weapon. They were wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading and commenting! I really appreciate it!

Bucky feels fine. He wonders why that is. He’s on the run, again, but somehow, it’s different. This time he knows he can make it on his own. Maybe Sam can help him, maybe he can’t. But that isn’t it. The last few weeks, he’s felt like someone’s watching him, all the time. FRIDAY, at the tower. Whichever government agency has a hair up their ass, outside. But now, at least, until he slips up, he’s free.

He’s glad he shaved – the beard was making him stand out. The hair needs to go too. They’re looking for a bearded, long-haired man; he needs to make it at least a little difficult for them.

Up ahead he sees a barber shop. He’s passed it a couple of times, walking through the Bronx. It looks small enough, run by an old Jewish man, always on the verge of shutting down. That suits him just fine. He can’t afford to draw attention to himself. After he’s sure that he isn’t being followed, he ducks in, trying to seem less twitchy than he feels right now.

The old timer looks up from where he’s sweeping the floor.

“What can I do for you, young man?” His eyes are brown, warm. They are also sharp and perceptive, noticing his dark jacket, ball cap and gloves.

“Um. I need a haircut,” Bucky answers, taking off the cap. He’s so glad he’s already shaved. This barber could have done it for him, but he’s not sure he’s ready to have someone else holding a straight razor to his throat.

The man in question raises his eyebrows.

“Take a seat then,” he says, gesturing to the chair in front of the washbasin. “Do you have an idea of how much you want taken off?”

Bucky isn’t that sure. He likes the length he had in Romania; it was fairly easy to take care of, but not short enough that he felt he was still in the army. Not that his hair was regulation, even then. He got away with it once he was out of Kreischberg, by being in the Howlies, who did what they liked.

He chews on his lip, conscious that he can’t think about it too long.

“Just . . . ear length? I guess? This length is . . . kinda hard to handle.”

An hour later, Bucky leaves the Barber shop, feeling naked. He keeps his hands stuffed in his pockets, otherwise he'd keep brushing the back of his neck, which feels particularly exposed. But the old man left him with some length over his forehead, and hadn’t shaved the sides either. He likes the look of it. Also, as the guy explained, it would grow into the longer style if Bucky missed it.

He throws the ball cap into a dumpster he walks past, pulling out a light scarf instead. Though he won’t be able to wear it for long, before it gets too hot. He spends a few hours casing the office block, watching as, one after the other, the workers leave for the night. There isn’t a security guard, just a security system. Will his codes still work _here?_ The duffel full of weapons is heavy, and he wonders if he should steal a car. If this was California, he would. But New York . . . maybe not such a great idea.

He waits for the building to empty completely, then a couple hours longer. It’s nothing, compared to hours spent lying down on a muddy hilltop, with icy rain trickling down his back. Once it feels safe, he circles the building, looking for a back door, something. Down where there should be a basement entrance, he finds something unexpected: a small metal door, and a ramp facing it. As usual, ripping off a metal panel reveals a keypad, but this time, he isn’t that lucky. After his second try is unsuccessful, he decides he needs to hurry up and get this over with.

He grabs the small door and tears it off its hinges, finds that it’s hiding a garage, with a black SUV in it. He remembers the STRIKE team having armored cars like that, back in DC. He looks back at the door he came in through, realising that it was part of a bigger whole, probably some kind of roll up mechanism.

At first, it seems like a dead end. But he knows how these things go, now. He shines his Maglite under the SUV, and spots the large metal grate, crumbling and rusted. It’s the work of a minute to break into the car, disengage the handbrake and roll it forward. He uses his left arm to push, and it takes all his strength anyway.

Finally, he can pull out the grate and shine his torch into what turns out to be a passage, below. He throws down a handful of gravel, wary of tripwires or pressure plates, but nothing happens. He needs to get down there. He lowers himself to the floor below, and as soon as he takes one step, lights go on, one after the other, until the whole corridor is illuminated.

Bucky freezes. His instinct is to jump back up, get the hell out of there. But that’s stupid; he’s already committed, now. He quickly sneaks down the corridor, conscious that he might have tripped a silent alarm. When he reaches a door at the end, he tears it open, striding through, then recoils in horror, his stomach rising.

There’s a row of Winter Soldiers, waiting for him. His back hits the wall, and he tries to retreat even further, feeling his way towards the door. They don’t move, though. He squeezes his eyes shut, opens them again. They haven’t moved. There’s a crunch behind him, and he turns, only to see the doorjamb crumbling as his fingers punch through the wood. Fuck, he’s an idiot.

It’s just a series of mannequins, all wearing his familiar leather and Kevlar, gun holsters strapped to their legs. All the jackets are one armed. Their heads are wearing masks and his old tactical goggles, that’s why he thought they were real. Also, he’s as jumpy as a cat right now.

He backs out, determined to leave the same way he came, then stops. The plan was to check if HYDRA was still around, to take them down. All he has is a couple of guns and knives. He has no protective gear, nothing. They had this all ready for him, because they thought he was still their tool. Isn’t it time he proved them wrong?

A few minutes later, Bucky forces up the garage door and drives out, wasting a few seconds to pull it back down. The base seems deserted, sure, but who really knows, with HYDRA. Maybe one day some flunky will have a look at the electric bill and wonder why the lights went on for no reason.

He finds a vacant lot and gets to work on the car, searching for trackers, smashing everything he finds. He looks at the GPS and hesitates, but ultimately gets rid of that too. He’s been trained, he has a sense of direction, and he can buy or steal a map. There’s a list of co-ordinates in his head which will do for a start.

In the Bronx, a cheap motel isn’t hard to find. He needs at least a few hours of sleep, or he’s gonna crash before he even gets started. The motel has a parking lot attached, and he parks in the darkest corner. Even as he enters the room, he hesitates. Maybe he should sleep in the van. But he took most of his stuff with him – if the van is still bugged, best he find out when he’s not in it. There’s a tv bolted to the wall high up in a corner of the room, and he turns it on, to see if there’s anything about him, or Sam.

He goes to brush his teeth, listening for key words like ‘Captain America’, ‘Winter Soldier’, or Avengers Tower. T’Challa insisted on keeping the name, not wanting to make Wakanda’s involvement so obvious. Though anyone who goes in nowadays will see certain differences, both in the people moving in and out, restaurants, cafes, the embassy, and so on.

But the entire news broadcast goes by without even a mention of anything strange going on in midtown Manhattan. The only thing Bucky isn’t used to is the endless list of Amber alerts, one after another. Then he thinks, of course. Whenever something like this happens, a natural or unnatural disaster, children are the ones who suffer, the most vulnerable. He thinks of Stark’s kid, having to grow up without her father, and winces.

Bucky wakes up to the early morning news, swearing before his eyes open fully. He’s gone soft, dammit. Even in Bucharest he never slept more than three hours a night. But at least he only took off his boots last night, so he won’t spend any longer in the motel room than he needs to. He gives the tv a last glance – still nothing. Well. That won’t last long, he hopes.

See, Bucky has a plan. He wants HYDRA gone. He thought it _was_ gone, after the Triskelion, and definitely after Thanos wiped out half the world. But he was wrong, it turns out. Nat and Steve spent five years putting out fires on a small scale, but HYDRA hid too well, and all those people returning caused the kind of confusion that enables them to flourish. He never asked Steve about HYDRA before he went on his trip into the past, and when he returned . . . well. Who knows what Steve still remembers, now?

So, it’s up to him, Bucky figures. He’ll take down as many as he can before they take _him_ down. He’ll make it as public as possible, too. He’s sure that it would have worked, last time, if most of HYDRA hadn’t been hidden away, in the dark places of the world. He’s going to change all that.

He spares a thought for the dreams he once had, in Wakanda, of living a life, with Steve, once they were both free. Well, he thinks, as he drives to the first location on his list, castles in the air, right? Steve certainly showed him.

Bucky doesn’t waste any time. Another glass and chrome office block is the last location he has for Manhattan; then he has to look further afield, find a way to get off the island without drawing any attention. But when he finally gets there, he can’t hold back a curse. Either this isn’t HYDRA anymore, or they’ve chosen a very convincing disguise. This set of offices is very busy. It’s a common area with different companies occupying the same space, and the security guards don’t look like the STRIKE team moonlighting, which is what he remembers. No, these are older men, family men – maybe it’s a really good disguise? Bucky decides to wait till nightfall and try again.

He parks in an alley a few blocks away, putting all the weapons he needs in a black duffel. He's wearing one of the one-armed Kevlar and leather jackets he _found_. Yeah, ok, _stole_ would be more accurate. Hell, they owe him. Putting it on didn't bring back _good_ memories, exactly. But at least he's fairly bullet proof, now. He bought a tattoo cover-up sleeve for his left arm, to be discarded once he's in; because once he's faced with HYDRA, he wants them to see him, to _know_ who's taking them down. It's one of the few times he regrets the loss of his old arm, bright and shiny eyesore that it was. He would love to destroy them with the weapon they grafted onto his body. 

Once he reaches the office block, he climbs up the back wall, bypasses the alarm with ease, sneaks in through a window. It’s weird, they don’t even seem to be trying. Maybe he’s making a horrendous mistake. Too late now.

Bucky sneaks down a few flights of stairs to the ground floor, and has to duck quickly to avoid the night guard, who’s on a sweep. He isn’t going to kill the guy, but he needs to incapacitate him. Bucky freezes, forgetting to breathe. What if there’s nothing here? What if he’s just making himself look crazy? Come on, _come on._ Move, Sarge. If there’s nothing, then he’ll come up with a new plan. But first he’ll go through with this one.

Out of the backpack come his handguns, a grenade and an assault rifle he found in the van. It’s too dark for the goggles, but the mask is coming on. He takes a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. There. He’s doing this. He’s doing what he does best.

“Hey! Who’s there?”

The lights go on in the lobby entrance, and Bucky moves, as he always has, with a measured stride, kicks the door open, raising the rifle, aiming. The terrified guard loses his grip on the gun he was trying to pull out. He looks like he’s on the verge of a heart attack.

“On your knees.”

The guard obeys instantly, and Bucky brings out a set of zip-cuffs. He pulls the man’s arms behind his back and cuffs him while he’s too scared to move. Then he half-lifts, half-drags him to the door, and is about to pull it open, when the guard yelps.

“Wait! The alarm – the cops will be here in five minutes!”

Good, Bucky thinks. On the one hand, he’ll be racing the clock. On the other, the guard will be safe in their hands.

“That’s why I’m doing it, pal,” he says. “When the cops come, go to them. Ignore anyone else.”

Bucky expects the guy to bluster and protest that there’s no-one else here, but he’s silent. His hand tightens on the man’s arm. Is he HYDRA?

“I need this job, mister.”

Bucky shakes his head, sorry for the guy, but relentless. “No, you don’t.”

Bucky is torn between pity and anger – is that why he spent all those years locked away, chained like an animal, because people like this guard needed their jobs? What about his life? The guard cringes a little, and Bucky realises his metal hand is tightening around the man’s bicep. Instead of punching the guard, he punches through the glass door, and a second later, the alarm shrieks into the night.

He pushes the guard away, shoulders the rifle and starts walking towards a door he spotted on the way down. He isn’t halfway there when it opens, and a group of black-uniformed goons pour out. This is more like it, he thinks. He lays into them, using both fists, flesh and metal. They’re slowed down a little by the shock at seeing him, his mask, the arm, though not silver with the red star, still metal, still strong.

Bucky gets into a rhythm of blocking the gunshots, punching his way through the guards, knocking them unconscious. There aren’t as many as he thought at first – only about seven. As he zipcuffs them, even though they’re out, he thinks about how much easier it would be if he shot them. He shakes off the thought. He wants to avoid that. As much as he can.

Even without a watch, he knows time is passing, so he shoulders the rifle and enters the hidden room they all emerged from. There’s nothing to indicate that it’s HYDRA. The guards don’t even have patches on their uniforms. He walks further in, his heart sinking as he finds an inner room, which doesn’t look at all like he expects. It’s full of computers, for one thing. The people sitting in front of them are young, dressed in casual clothing. Their backs are to him, so no-one even notices that he isn’t who they were expecting.

“Hey, Gordecki! You gonna turn that alarm off anytime soon?” She isn’t more than a girl, long blond hair in a braid, down her back. Bucky realises something with a sinking feeling: She’ll have been in high school when they were all turned to dust, five years ago.

Then she’s turning around in her office chair, and Bucky has to think fast. Her eyes widen, and she squeaks.

“Don’t move.” He projects his voice through the mask, and the tension in the room increases a hundredfold.

The ten or fifteen kids in the room (his brain keeps calling them kids, he feels like an old man in comparison) freeze at their workstations. He has to hurry, because the cops must be on their way. Of course, there’s always one who's gonna play the hero.

“There’s no money here,” the boy blusters – a milk-pale kid with a shock of red hair which has been shaved at the sides.

Bucky ignores him. “Everyone turn around,” he orders. “Slowly.” He doesn’t raise his voice. They all hear him, though.

They all look terrified, except Brave Red over there, who is half scared, half belligerent. Oh, most definitely; if anyone is going to try something it’ll be him, Bucky thinks. That doesn’t mean he’s HYDRA. It’s starting to dawn on Bucky that he’s faced with a human shield. The guards he’s knocked out are all HYDRA – they have the same look as the STRIKE team at the Triskelion. But these kids . . . he’s not sure.

He points the rifle at another girl – no, woman. You’re not supposed to say girl, nowadays. He thinks. This one is not white – would that make her more or less likely to be in HYDRA? He knows that they don’t like when they’re called Nazis. Doesn’t mean they aren’t.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

She’s shaking, can hardly speak. “We’re testing online security, seeing what we can break through, so that our clients can strengthen weak spots in their firewalls.” Her teeth are chattering. She stops talking, gripping the arms of her chair convulsively. 

Bucky focuses his attention on the others. Most of them look terrified. Red’s fists are clenching and unclenching, his legs tensing, like he’s getting ready to go for it. That’s it, he isn’t HYDRA. Most of them can’t be - there's no recognition in their eyes, no smug knowledge. These are practically children. They look at him and see a weirdo in a face mask. The Triskelion is almost ten years ago now. And any footage they might have seen would feature a silver arm with a red star on it.

But there’s one who’s properly terrified, looking at _him_ , not his gun. It comes to him like a flash. She knows him.

He turns to the first girl again, just as Red decides to go for it, launches himself at Bucky, and is immediately stopped by an arm which grabs his jacket and casually throws him aside. Bucky didn’t even need to use the left.

The girl had screamed, and now she covers her mouth with both hands, pleading eyes swimming in tears.

“Who am I?” Bucky hisses at her.

“The Winter Soldier!” she wails, and her friends look at her in shock. “You’re supposed to be dead!”

“Well, I’m not. Who else is HYDRA?”

“I don’t . . . we don’t know each other . . . “ She’s not a very convincing liar, Bucky thinks.

But he’s run out of time. And he finds he can’t shoot these kids, not even this girl, even if she is probably HYDRA. Maybe they’re acting, maybe it’s real, maybe they really bought into the order through pain bullshit. He finds himself longing for the days when he would have mowed through them, is glad of the mask covering the flush of shame in his cheeks at the thought.

“Wait,” the black girl says, “HYDRA? That’s . . . “ He can see the thoughts chasing each other through her eyes, what HYDRA are, what they do, what she is now. “We’re going to jail,” she says, “oh God.”

The others chime in, crying, assuring each other that they didn’t know, what the hell, attacking blondie over here, who’d apparently recruited all of them.

Bucky can hear sirens in the distance, and he hopes it’s because of his enhanced hearing. Out of fucking time, he thinks, comes to a decision.

“Get out. All of you. Except her.” He points the rifle at blondie, and she flinches.

“No!” The black girl gets up, puts herself between Bucky and the HYDRA girl.

“You can’t kill her! I won’t let you!”

Oh, brave girl, he thinks, wistfully. She reminds him of Steve, of himself – he wonders how long HYDRA would take to break her, what they would do to such a brave spirit.

“I’m not. She has to stay, turn herself in. Cut a deal. Otherwise-“

“Otherwise they’ll find me, and kill me,” blond girl finishes, drying her tears. “And everyone else with me. No prisoners.”

Bucky nods. He remembers all too well. “There’s a fire exit. Get out now.”

They don’t wait for him to repeat himself. Two of them help Red up, who staggers out, not before glaring at Bucky. He wants to sneer, mouth ‘tough guy’, before he remembers his mask.

He shoulders the rifle, starts walking towards his own exit, aims the last few words at the girl behind him, who’s stopped shaking. He’s curious about how she got into this in the first place. He knows some are even born into HYDRA, their parents early converts. Not everyone is recruited. But there’s no time.

“Ask to speak with Sam Wilson. You can trust him to be clean, at least. And he can protect you.”

The last look he sees on her carefully guarded face is a flicker of hope, though he isn’t sure what for.

Bucky only breaks into a run once he’s clear of the building. It’s a matter of seconds to get to the van, and once he’s in it he’s speeding through the streets, aiming for a tunnel which will get him off the island, eventually out of the city. He knows now what his mistake has been – expecting any large bases to be left in a city. The cities would have suffered most after the snap, with the highest population density. He needs to go out in the boonies, looking for innocuous looking warehouses, where no-one might blink an eye at deliveries, comings and goings in the middle of the night.

It takes him a week of careful driving to get to his first destination – a base under an abandoned shopping mall. He sets up a makeshift sniper’s nest half a mile away, and camps out for another few days, observing comings and goings, which mainly happen at night, as he suspected. He sleeps in the van, but still needs to eat, so he finds a gas station diner which has surprisingly good food for what it is.

It also has a tv with the sound turned down. Still, the closed captioning tells him everything he needs to know, especially when he realises he’s watching a three-way argument between some politicians and . . . Sam. Jesus. That’s Sam up there, wearing the stars and stripes, not looking self-conscious at all. Just majorly pissed off. He realises he must be grinning, thinking of how mad at him Sam must be.

Then he looks at the words scrolling underneath, and he winces. This is bad.

_\- no, he’s not a criminal, and he hasn’t hurt anyone. He’s going after HYDRA, which it would’ve been nice if someone told me they’re still around-_

One of the politicians, someone Bucky’s never heard of, but who has an R following his name, interrupts him. Man, Sam must be ticked off. He hates that.

_What HYDRA? Some teenagers trying to crack codes, testing themselves. Just because a pretty girl said something about secret Nazis doesn’t mean we all have to jump to it, Captain._

The guy's face is twisted in a sneer. The cameras immediately go to Sam's reaction; Bucky groans as Sam narrows his eyes, pressing his lips together. Don't play into their hands, Bucky thinks. They'll tear you apart.

_In the meantime we have a dangerous madman running the streets, causing property damage – the next time he might even kill someone!_

The guy seems to think he's made some kind of irrefutable point, but Sam's had enough, and does his own interrupting. Bucky can't hold back a smile once he reads the caption.

_Excuse me, sir. James Barnes is a goddam war hero and an ex-prisoner of war who was abandoned by his country in his time of need. He deserves our goddam respect._

Sam nods at one of the anchors, offscreen, and the camera focuses on his face and chest. He cuts an impressive figure as Captain America, Bucky muses. Steve chose good.

Bucky stops paying attention to the screen, concentrating on his food instead. Which is why he almost jumps out of his seat when someone turns on the sound, and the familiar voice from the Smithsonian fills the room.

“Best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield . . . “ it starts, and Bucky almost chokes on his burger. But there’s more. There’s old photos from his Army records, there’s that old filmstrip of him and Steve sharing a laugh – something which Bucky feels like a knife to the gut. Jeez Sam, he thinks, hate me that much? But it’s clear what Sam is doing: he’s talking to him, telling him to come home, asking him what the hell he thinks he’s doing.

Bucky can’t. Those people in the news studio are the real deal – he’s a madman on the loose, in their eyes. Who’s to say they’re wrong, anyway. The only thing he can do is take down as much of HYDRA as he can before they take him down. He decides to get the burger to go; this was a bad idea, even though he chose a diner almost a state away from the HYDRA facility. Still, he’s sure that whichever task force is after him knows how to move outwards in concentric circles, and then he’ll be screwed. He’s spent enough time setting this up, he can’t give up now.

So, he gets up, asks for a container, pays at the cash register, but not before more missing kids’ information scrolls along the bottom of the tv screen. Sometimes there’s a photo, sometimes there isn’t. So many of them are foster kids, Bucky realises, different ethnicities, different ages, different genders. An eight-year-old boy from Albany, a ten-year-old girl from New Jersey, two children in Harrisburg.

Bucky’s still thinking about the missing kids when he drives back to the deserted mall, taking a roundabout route, in case he’s been made and needs to lose a tail. Maybe he should be doing that, looking for these kids. But he doesn’t even know where to start with something like that. He knows about HYDRA because he used to be them, he was their prisoner and accomplice, he knows how they think.

The next night, he makes his move. He’s watched for a couple of nights and memorised shift changes. If he was in charge he’d have made them change the time on a nightly basis, but he isn’t. Either that or they started out like that and they became sloppy. Whatever, so much the better for him.

When the time comes, he’s been hiding all day, waiting for a night-time shift change. Then he drops into the middle of them, guns already firing. There are yelling, panicked men all around him, and he grins underneath his mask. One man tries to get away and he grabs the man by the scruff of his neck, using his metal arm, throwing him into the metal garage door, which dents. He blasts it open with a grenade, and strides through, rifle at the ready.

Only his iron self-control, built up after decades of being an emotionless machine, keeps him moving. Because what he sees there – that’s the real HYDRA. Rooms full of experiments, animals being used for testing. Clean rooms, with glass walls protecting the outside world from whatever poisons they’re cooking up. Bucky wants to shoot out everything, but he senses that will be a bad idea.

One of the scientists tries to rush him, and Bucky punches him in the jaw. He goes down without a word.

“Anyone else?” Bucky manages to keep any inflection out of his tone.

The group of lab coats stares at him, everyone shaking their head, terrified. The animals are going crazy in their cages, those which are alive anyway. Bucky can’t look at them, wants to let them all out – but what if they’re incubating something dangerous? He’s pretty sure he’s seen an end of the world type movie that started out like that.

Bucky glares at the men and women in front of him, conscious of how terrifying he must look, glad of it.

“Anyone gonna try and tell me they’re not HYDRA?”

One of them, an older woman, raises her chin. “We would never deny HYDRA, traitor. Do what you must.”

Fucking bitch, Bucky thinks, his finger tightening instinctively on the trigger of the gun he’s pointing at her face. God, he wants it so bad, she reminds him so much of all the bastards who worked on him like he was a thing, like one of those animals. But he can’t – then it would all be for nothing.

He manages to keep a hold of himself, and scans the researchers until he finds a kid who doesn’t look much older than the teenagers back in New York. He throws a bundle of zip-cuffs at him.

“Cuff ‘em. Behind their backs. Now,” he stresses, letting his voice go cold and dangerous.

“Or?” The woman is glaring at him, challenge in her expression. He wants to shoot her so bad, set an example, but he instinctively knows that’s a bad idea. The others won’t co-operate if they think he’s gonna kill them anyway. He looks at the cages, has an idea.

“Or I let all these animals out, and lock you in the same room.” He notices that they all go pale, even Queen Bitch there. “Pretty sure some of them’d like some payback.”

There’s a couple of rhesus monkeys shrieking and gibbering, banging against the glass walls of their cages, showing all their teeth – forget about infecting the researchers, they’d probably bite anyone in a lab coat to death before that could happen. The kid looks at the older woman and she nods. So, the scientists are quickly cuffed and Bucky herds them all out, where he left all the muscle.

The kid looks even more terrified than before, even though the guys in black uniforms aren’t dead, just knocked out, knee-capped and shot in the shoulder.

“What happens now?” kid HYDRA asks in a shaky voice, and Bucky is starting to wonder if this isn’t an Oscar winning act; no-one’s _that_ scared.

“We’ll wait for the cops,” Bucky answers, and catches a strange look amongst some of the scientists. “Don’t worry, I already called them.” In fact, he’s looked up response times, and planned his INFIL and EXFIL accordingly, though he spares a glance at his watch, checking again.

When he looks back, the kid isn’t scared anymore. “In that case,” he says, nasty smirk twisting his lips, _"Zhelaniye. Rzhavyy. Semnadtsat. Rassvet.”_

Bucky stares at him, disbelieving. That little shit! “I should have fuckin’ shot your kneecaps out, you motherfucking-“

He’s ignored as the chant continues. _”Pech. Devyat. Dobroserdechnyy. Vozvrashcheniye na rodinu. Odin. Gruzovoy vagon.”_

Bucky’s had enough. He takes two steps forward and smashes the stock of his carbine in the kid’s stomach, sending him to the ground, doubled over. He’ll deny to his dying day that he was even a little worried once he heard the first two words, but he shouldn’t have been. There’s nothing left of it in his head, nothing at all. He’s so angry, though, he wants to kick the guy’s teeth in, he wants to kill all of them.

Now they’re really scared. Good. Did they really think he’d allow himself to live with that shit still in his head, that he wouldn’t put a bullet in his brain rather than be their slave, ever again? He remembers the last time he heard those words, in a lab in Wakanda, crying on Shuri’s shoulder when it became clear that he was free.

Bucky’s sweating. His finger tightens on the trigger and he forces it off. No. he’s better than this, better than _them_. He strides away, not even bothering to pick up the pace, his back to them. Fucking HYDRA.

He sets off immediately, knowing he has to put two state lines between himself and what he’s just done. If he’s even done anything effective. He drives without sleeping for a few days, until he has to accept that, serum or not, he’s going to kill himself falling asleep at the wheel. He checks into a motel at night, not caring how much he’s paying, just needing somewhere to sleep. He still makes sure that it isn’t a trap, that they haven’t managed to predict where he’s headed, somehow. But he can’t see any of the signs, and he’s too tired to wait around. So he sleeps for what seems like forever, but is only ten hours.

Looking at himself in the mirror for the first time in what feels like years is a shock. His beard is back, and that needs fixing. He looks exhausted, still – no wonder the girl at reception looked like she was tempted to call the cops on him. He shaves and takes a long shower, washing his hair, feeling like a human being again. The arm is fine under water, and he’s amazed, as always, at how light it is, compared to the old red star. He wonders why he said no to Shuri, for so long. Did he feel he had to punish himself, for the Starks, for Steve and all that happened because of him? That was really dumb, he thinks.

Oh yeah, he answers himself. And poking the HYDRA hornets’ nest, that’s smart. Just shut up, he thinks. He’s hungry, is all. He’s getting tired of diner food and looks for a food truck which is more interesting. The Greek-Lebanese fusion sounds good and looks fine too; he’s so hungry he buys an insane amount of food, pretending he’s gonna share with friends. He settles in his motel room, surrounded by paper plates of rice, spinach, and meat, and tries to look for some information on the tv. This time he isn’t that lucky, though. Local news affiliates aren’t interested in things happening in other states – not like when he was still in New York.

Bucky eats his way through most of the food he bought, and drifts off into sleep, still not recovered from his exhausting drive. He’s woken by what sounds like Sam’s voice, which can’t be . . . can it? He blinks awake, sleepy still, and there he is, Sam Wilson, Captain America, as the text underneath him says. He’s wearing a suit this time, not _the_ suit. It’s some kind of talk show, and he’s surrounded by ladies. Bucky hasn’t heard of any of them, but Sam seems to be charming them all. Not that Bucky blames them. If he hadn’t been taken by Steve since the age of seventeen, well . . . also, if he hadn’t tried to kill the guy more than once, maybe he could have had a chance.

Bucky tries to focus on what’s being discussed . . . and it’s him. Again. Come on, Sam. It’s bad enough the _first_ Captain America let things slide to save his brainwashed childhood friend. The second one needs to keep his eyes on the ball.

Reluctantly, he switches off. He needs to stay focused. Even though the words didn’t work on him, the incident still got him spooked. Bucky spreads open the map he bought, and plans his next move. They’ll be expecting him to work his way west, as he has been. So he’s going to double back, go south. He knows of a big facility in Huntsville, or he could go back to Maryland, he might have his pick there. He just hopes he isn’t being predictable with his choices.

But it seems to all go well over the next couple of weeks. He hits two HYDRA bases, mid-sized, one after the other. They used to be bigger but had downsized, it seems, after Thanos. Still, these are the most disturbing ones so far, the ones with human experimentation, and biowarfare elements. Alien weaponry from the Chitauri attack was being tested on anything with a pulse, and even though the test subjects keep telling him they’re volunteers, Bucky wants to take the place apart with his bare hands.

The second facility is the one where he has his first death, though it’s not one he could have predicted or prevented. He kicks the door in, as usual, his lazy stride getting a bit too cocky, perhaps (that’s what Steve would say, he thinks, missing him with a yearning that’s almost physical). Then, an older man wearing the usual white coat, but paired with an incongruous bow tie, takes one look at him, shouts “Hail Hydra!” and bites down. And that’s all she wrote, Bucky thinks, as the old guy dies, his teeth clenched together, foam bubbling through his parted lips.

What the hell? Bucky glares at the other scientists, guns in both hands, pointed at them.

“Anyone else wanna die? Can guarantee that a bullet’ll hurt less than that shit.”

They all shake their heads, avoiding the body on the floor. Bucky does his usual spiel of choosing one to cuff all the others, and risks a glance at the dead man’s face. A wave of rage and horror washes over him. That fucking prick! Bucky recognises one of the technicians from the Triskelion, from Pierce. I hope it hurt, you asshole, he thinks; as much as it hurt when you put me in that fucking chair. Bucky’s hands aren’t shaking, but they’d like to be, he thinks. Come on, keep it together, get them outside. One of the female researchers is crying.

Bucky manages to keep the laughter in – what the hell? Weepy HYDRA techs? The ball-busting bitches from his day would have eaten these kids for breakfast. One time, he remembers they were supposed to cut him open, check how fast the healing would kick in. One tech, probably new to the game, suggested giving Bucky an anaesthetic. Bucky still remembers the contemptuous look the witch in charge aimed at him. He also remembers, and regrets, finding this kid later and putting a bullet in his brain. No weakness. Order through strength.

Once Bucky’s back in his van, speeding away, he thinks of what’s next. Even though he tries to deny it, that guy’s death shook him. He really doesn’t want to kill anyone; he just wants to expose these cockroaches for what they are. As he puts some distance between himself and the facility he just took down, he wonders – should he phone Sam, turn himself in? Destroying what’s left of HYDRA is satisfying, but he can’t help feeling this is a warning he should listen to. He can’t do this alone. Maybe if he had someone with him, they would have noticed what that prick was going to do, before he did it.

Just one more, he thinks, pulling in at another anonymous motel, in another run-down town. Then he’ll call Sam.

Later, he’ll look back at that moment, calling himself the biggest jackass in creation. Because his next base, that was supposed to be the last one, is _going_ to be the last one. Forever, he realises.

There’s triple the number of HYDRA soldiers than in the other facilities, waiting for him. This is a trap. He starts shooting before he even lands in front of them, uses every single weapon in his arsenal, and tries to retreat but there are even more behind him. He has to fight his way through, but it’s like there’s a hole in the ground which they’re all pouring out of.

Then it happens. It feels like a punch to his gut; he’s immediately out of breath, tries to draw in air, can’t. He doesn’t want to look down, or touch his stomach, because he knows what he’ll find, and he can’t afford to have his hands sticky with blood. He’s felt it before – he knows he’s gut shot.

Bucky runs, though. He never got far inside the base, and he gets out, running like he remembers doing in Bucharest. He runs through back alleys and side-paths, faster than the HYDRA goons, but still. They’re going to catch up before he reaches his van. He should never have chosen a city. What gave him away though, he wonders, as the spots start to form in front of his eyes and the buzzing increases in his ears.

As he finally collapses, next to a dumpster, it occurs to him that in almost ten years, someone was bound to retrieve Zola’s algorithm, use it for other purposes – specifically, predicting where an irritating ex-asset might turn up next. Dammit. So Zola was gonna be the death of him, after all.

He should call Sam, he thinks, as he checks his Sig. Tell him what he suspects. That’s a good idea, he thinks, except you never bought another phone. Moron. He has two bullets left. For himself, he only needs one. But why wait? It’s a dumb risk. They’ll find him soon, and he’s taken out enough of them by now. So this is it, he thinks. Sorry, Sam . . . Steve . . . I can’t let them take me alive. Not again.

When a black van weaves to a halt in the alley, he thinks they’ve found him. Then he realises – it’s his van. Or rather, the one he stole. Who the hell took it? Also, why is my mouth full of blood? His head falls to his chest. He is, he suspects, done.

“Get up! Get up, you idiot!” The voice is female, but really high-pitched, almost like a-

“What the hell, kid, get out of here! The f- the hell did you do to my car?”

Through the pain and the spots in front of his eyes, he sees a little girl – ten years old? Eleven? He can barely keep his eyes open, only gets an impression of long, bright red hair in a ponytail, but then the usual modern kid uniform of jeans and a t-shirt. Not like Becky, he thinks – she loved her pretty dresses, and her shiny shoes for church. He looks at the girl again, but all he can see is his little sister, the way she looked when he shipped out for the last time. 

He holds out a hand but she ignores it, starts kicking him. “Get up, you fucking moron! I can’t lift you – you’re too heavy.”

Ma's gonna take the belt to her, she hears her talkin' like that. “I need some sleep, Becky – just tell ma I’m not going.” He can barely get the words out through the blood in his mouth.

Bucky hears a drawn in breath above his head. The next words are gentler. “Come on, we have to go.”

A small hand tugs at his arm, and he uses the wall behind him for leverage. When he staggers, a bird-boned shoulder wedges itself under his armpit. He tries not to rest his whole weight on her. He’ll crush her like a bug.

He tries to smile at her, lips trembling, but she glares at him, pissed off for some reason. “You could at least remember me.”

But I do remember you, he thinks, as he pulls himself up into the driver’s seat, with every movement setting fire to his stomach. He has to drive, though, because the way she drove before, they were both gonna die.

Then he wakes up. This child can’t be Becky. He’s ashamed at the tears which sting his eyes. She’s not Becky. His little sister died an old lady, years ago.

“You’re not my sister.”

“No,” the girl answers, cool as a cucumber. “Get us the fuck out of here, James.”

What the- “Whoa, kid. You gotta mouth on you. And how the hell do you know my name?”

When Bucky turns to the passenger side again, he’s looking down the barrel of his own gun, as well as a cold expression which doesn't fit the face it's on. Fuck, he’s losing it. As well as a lot of blood, and possibly consciousness. Damn, this child just got the drop on him.

Bucky drives off, not too fast, because they’re still in trouble. Nothing draws attention like a speeding car. He follows the kid’s directions, while a weird thought pops up in his head. But the Red Room is long defunct, it fell with the Soviet Union. He hopes someone hasn’t started that shitshow up again.

He coughs, and blood spatters all over the wheel. She says something, but the buzzing in his ears is too loud.

“Pull over! We lost them!” This time he hears her and obeys.

They’re somewhere in the suburbs, he realises, looking around. Fine, but they can’t stay here, it’s completely exposed, Bucky thinks. Though that won’t be his problem for very long.

“Kid,” he starts, then he stops again, trying to remember what he wanted to say. “I don’t know who you are, but you gotta scram. These are bad people, they’ll fu- mess you up soon as look at you.”

She shakes her head, the red hair flying around her face in little waves. The glare in her eyes is starting to feel very familiar right now.

_“Listen, you cocksucking son of a whore – you’re going to tell me what you did with Steve Rogers, and you’re going to do it now.”_

Bucky wonders if he died back in that alley. Is he hallucinating? Is his dying brain still sending out these messed out signals? Because this little girl, spewing filth all over him, is doing it in perfect idiomatic Russian. And that’s just crazy. The red hair, the green eyes, no. It’s ridiculous. This is a _child._

He looks at her again, trying to focus on her little face rather than her big gun – or rather, his gun. His mouth is full of blood, his gut is on fire, and the black spots in front of his eyes are growing. Still, he can’t control himself, half laughing, half crying. This hallucination is amazing.

Finally, Bucky speaks, not even trying to hold back the laughter, because this is some hilarious shit. “Romanoff?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. Cliffhanger!
> 
> Don't want to give anything away, except this fic will have a happy ending (which doesn't involve ANYONE running away into the past).


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the kudos and comments! I appreciate them all!
> 
> * * *
> 
> Previously: Bucky got shot and was rescued by mini-Natasha - he's having a problem figuring out where he is right now.

Bucky knows enough not to ask. He _knows_ this. He’ll get the info when they’re good and ready. Asking will just result in pain. He licks his lips. Shit. He shouldn’t do that either.

Why not ask, though? He’s already in pain, how can it get worse? Stupid question. It can always get worse. Bucky chances a quick look around, trying to reorient. So. A suburb, looks like. Continental United States – during the daytime? Ok. He’s in an armoured SUV, driver’s seat, even though he’s been shot. Because . . . because he’s with a Widow. Shit, shit, shit.

He’s not fooled by the little girl looks, or the fancy pink phone she’s talking into, like she’s a normal pre-teen. He’s been here before. Has he? He’s not supposed to be able to remember; he knows that much. Maybe the Widow is here to finish him off.

The girl stops talking and fixes him with cold green eyes, like chips of jade. Ok. He can do this. A bullet is nothing.

“Какова миссия?” It’s like he hasn’t spoken Russian for a long time. The words are gravel in his mouth.

The girl sighs, blinks, mouth pursed. “There’s no mission, James. Don’t you remember?”

A voice crackles out of the phone cradled in her fingers. _”Don’t call him James! What the hell? I almost believed you were Natasha for a second. You know better than that!”_

Natasha? That sounds familiar. Some things are starting to emerge for Bucky – the most obvious being that his left arm is black with gold, not silver. The Widow, or _Natasha,_ is still talking.

“The day I use that ridiculous nickname is the day you can send me to a nursing home, along with the man you insist is Steve Rogers,” she hisses.

_”Fine, then hold the phone to his ear! And you’re not too good to call him Bucky – if I can, then you can!”_

The voice addresses him. _”Hey, Bucky! It’s Sam! C’mon man, don’t tell me you forgot everything – don't give me that tv amnesia shit! We’re on the way – with medics and everything. I know you hate it when we call you James, you gotta remember that!”_

Bucky leans back in his seat, biting back a groan. “ _James_ always meant I was in trouble,” he grates out. “Of course, you could always call me _Buchanan,”_ he finishes, looking at the little girl. Her expression of disgust is hilarious.

 _“Thank you, sweet Jesus,”_ the voice rings in his ear. _“What happened, man?”_

Bucky grins, asks, “Which part?” Sam hates that. Which means Bucky does it as much as humanly possible.

 _“I hate you,”_ he hears, though Sam’s voice sounds weirdly thick. He better not be crying, Bucky thinks. He wonders what Sam will do if Bucky says there’s no crying in baseball, or avenging. Send his little bird-robot after him, probably.

“I got shot.” Bucky pauses long enough that he can practically hear Sam grinding his teeth, then continues. “Got in over my head, ran, and then got my ass pulled out of the fire by mini-Romanoff here,” he says, catching sight of her dramatic eye-roll.

“You know it’s me, in here, right?” Natasha says. _Natasha._ Even thinking her name is like biting down on tinfoil. “I’m just stuck in this body.”

_”Hey, it’s like in that movie with Tom Cruise!”_ Sam adds. Bucky swallows a chuckle.  


“I’m not a vampire,” she says, through clenched teeth.

 _“How’d you know it was her, anyway?”_ Sam asks.

“She called me a cocksucker, Sam, in Russian,” he answers, pretending to sound shocked.

Natasha has both hands over her face, which is a good thing, because using language like that in front of a little girl is making the hairs on the back of his neck rise up in horror.

He’s glad he’s getting distracted from the burning in his gut, because otherwise he’d be in a lot more pain. But it’s gonna get worse. Because he can hear sirens.

“Uhh . . . how far out are you, Sam?”

“What’s wrong?” Natasha raises his Sig Sauer, which she’s been hiding in her lap, under a backpack. It’s pink. The bag, not the gun.

“Lord in heaven, put that away,” he groans. “Police. Be here in ten. Seconds, not minutes.”

 _“Ok,”_ he hears Sam answer. _“Ok, no problem, I can do that. Dammit, Bucky, you gotta make things difficult, all the time.”_

Sorry I got shot, Bucky wants to retort, but his stomach muscles are going into spasm. It’s getting hard to think. Next to him, the little girl he needs to accept is Romanoff, miniaturized, swears foully in Russian.

“Bar of soap, clear that right up,” he mumbles, wondering when he turned into his pa.

Bucky bends the fingers of his right hand into claws and digs them into his thigh until the pain distracts him from his gut, manages to sit up straight. Time speeds up, while he’s wallowing, and police cars surround their SUV. There’s uniform police with rifles aiming at him, and one sergeant with a megaphone. What she says is not exactly original, or unexpected.

“Throw your weapons out of the car! Step away from the vehicle! Do it now!”

Then, a miracle happens. Bucky sees the sergeant tapping her earpiece, talking urgently into her radio mic, and look to the sky. 

As soon as she yells “Stand down! Lower weapons!” Sam comes swooping out of the sky on those crazy wings of his. He lands in front of the SUV on two legs, upright – Bucky’s heard him being teased on his lack of a superhero landing, and had to listen to an hour long-rant on people who aren’t super-soldiers and don’t have super-strong kneecaps – his shield in front of him, his other arm held out, showing he's got no weapons. None that are pointed at the cops, anyway.

Sam goes over to talk to the police sergeant, and Bucky wants to relax, wants to drift away, but can’t. Whether it’s Romanoff or not, she’s still a little girl. A little girl who can kill him twice over before he blinks, but still. He watches as Sam talks and gestures, and soon the other uniform cops get in their cars, moving them away, leaving space for a state of the art Wakandan jet, landing with a dazzling display of flashing lights.

That’s it, he’s done. He lets himself be loaded onto a gurney and wheeled rapidly on the jet, and vaguely senses that Natasha gets on with him. Sam says that he’ll follow and meet up later; probably the cops want explanations. The last thing he feels is someone putting an IV in his hand, and a feeling of warmth as all the pain goes away.

When Bucky wakes up, he knows he’s in the Tower. His eyes only open into slits, but he notes the lack of multiple exits, the wall of windows (why would they _do_ that?) the white walls, glass and chrome aesthetic. Oh, and the annoyed and silent Captain America and mini-Black Widow sitting at his bedside.

“We know you’re awake, James. Your performance is lacking.”

“You have no idea how weird that sounds coming out the mouth of a little girl,” Sam complains, and Bucky agrees.

Natasha, if it is Natasha, rolls her eyes. “You both still don’t believe that it’s me, do you?”

“Come on, Nat. Would you believe _us?”_

Bucky decides to chip in. “Look, Steve said that Barton knows how it went, on Vormir. We could compare stories and-“

“No!” Sounding like a little girl protesting her bedtime is not helping her case, Bucky thinks. Her lower lip is trembling a little.

“Look, this,” she adds, sweeping her hands in front of her and down, “is not permanent. But it’s not going to be fixed quickly, either. I mean, all I could measure was my hair growth since I . . . arrived. And as far as I can tell, this is just a body which will grow at the normal rate. Clint already has three kids, he doesn’t need a fourth. Also, I don’t need a father. I need . . . my friends.” She ends in a mumble, eyelashes fluttering.

Sam isn’t buying it, Bucky can tell. He thinks the girl can also tell. She chews on a nail.

“I’ve told Steve things I haven’t told another human being,” she starts, tentatively.

Sam shakes his head. “If you don’t believe me, you can ask _James,_ here,” he says, while Bucky raises his middle finger, “but Steve lived a life. I don’t know what he’ll remember. I don’t know if he can take the shock of seeing . . . you.”

That’s unexpected, Bucky thinks. Steve isn’t well? Steve can’t take the shock? What the hell? They’re dealing with this, and quickly, because he needs to see Steve, to talk to him.

Bucky rubs his eyebrow, thinking. He’s not sure why he still has an IV attached – he feels fine, and he’s probably healed. In fact, he feels better now than he did back in Berlin, after he punched his way out and Steve had to bring a helicopter down on his head to stop him. He also remembers why.

“Romanoff,” he says, interrupting whatever stare-off is happening between her and Sam, “remind me, in Berlin, did you kick me in the head or in the gut, that time I was trying to get out?”

She fixes him with an unimpressed look, but she gets it. “I punched you in the balls. Hard. Then I tried the garrotte and elbows to the head, but-“

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You always try that with me. And it never works.” He looks at Sam, whose eyes are wide, fists clenched. “It’s her. No-one else knew that.”

Sam advances on the girl, and at first Bucky is nervous, then he isn’t, because Sam is doubled over, arms around tiny preteen Natasha, trying hard to pretend he isn’t crying into her shoulder. She lets it happen for a few seconds, then pats him on the arm.

“C’mon, Airforce. Pull yourself together.”

It’s easy to get used to this weirdness, Romanoff’s adult tones in a child’s voice. It’s not so easy to imagine how the future will go. Do they need to send her to school?

“So, how about telling us your story, then,” Bucky asks, and it gives Sam the opportunity to discreetly clear his throat and wipe his eyes.

Bucky understands – Sam, Romanoff and Steve were a team, in those two years after Siberia. They were international fugitives together, lived and fought together. Then they all went to fight an alien, and five seconds later, Sam wakes up, still fighting, without Nat, and soon without Steve. Bucky gets it.

Romanoff sighs, sits back. She starts telling the story of this weird planet, with the Soul stone, and what they had to do to bring it home. He can see Sam’s face clench when she describes taking the fall to get it, and he shakes his head at Sam. No point. If she thought she owed Barton, they can’t do anything about it. Not anymore.

“So . . . I remember falling,” Nat is saying, “and hitting the ground, and . . . dying.” Her eyes are narrowed, as if she remembers the pain. She shivers a little.

“Then I woke up by the side of a road. As a _child._ You have no idea how- It’s being made powerless, again, I-“ She pauses, little girl face in danger of crumpling up in tears. Instead she glares at them, daring them to laugh. Bucky had never been less amused in his life. Going through puberty again? No thanks, he shudders.

“I was still wearing my leathers, but they were too big for me. I walked until I found a town, broke into a clothes store.”

Sam has a half smile of admiration on his face, and Bucky shares the feeling.

“Then I went to the police. I didn’t much like the idea of living on the streets, as a kid. So, they called social services and eventually found me a place in a foster home. All I had to do was burst out crying every time they asked about my parents.”

“So why didn’t you come to us, Nat?” Sam asks. He sounds hurt.

Romanoff rolls her eyes, looking as much like herself as is possible in a ten-year-old body. “I didn’t know you were here. And even if I did . . . you don’t have any idea of what it’s like, having no-one listen to a word you’re saying.”

“Oh, right, I don’t know what that’s like, sure.” Sam’s eyes are narrowed.

“Sorry,” Romanoff mumbles, looking down. She shrugs. “I just waited around, trying to be a kid again. Online, all I read was about the new Captain America, nothing about Steve Rogers. I thought he died.”

Bucky tries to unclench his fist, not wanting to tear another blanket. It's not working.

“Then the Winter Soldier was in the news again, and I decided to make my move.” She glares at him. “It wasn’t at all hard to track you down.”

“For you,” Bucky counters. “I bet they gave you a fancy computer, too – and that phone.”

That sparks up her temper, and she calls him something in Russian that he’d need a dictionary to understand. “They gave me nothing! I stayed with them because I needed Child Services off my back, but they were just in it for the funding. I stole everything I needed, just like in the old days.”

That reminds him of something. Sam has been looking at one, then the other, like he’s at a tennis match, and he doesn’t know if he wants Sam to hear this, then thinks, fuck it.

“Hey, why do you keep acting like I oughta know you? First in Berlin, then here.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Tell me, in the car, who did you think I was?”

“A Widow, like – oh.” How had he known? The hell?

Sam’s eyebrows climb far and fast. “Wait – you knew each other?”

Romanoff looks through her lashes at him, and he answers with a tiny nod. “One year, we had a different trainer. Using a sniper rifle, hand-to-hand, knife work, speaking in English without an accent. Well, without a _Russian_ accent.”

“You?”

Bucky shrugs. “I really don’t remember. I mean, I knew she was a Widow, but that’s all. I thought she was there to take me out.”

Romanoff has an answer ready, looks like, but then yawns instead, like she’s a kitten gonna fall asleep any second. It pisses her off. It’s obvious – she has less stamina and strength, as a child.

“Don’t tell me – you’re sending me to my room.” She manages to sound as disgruntled as ever.

“Come on . . . Natasha,” Bucky answers, forcing the name out through stiff lips. Man, this is hard, he thinks. It feels weirdly unearned, calling her by a nickname. But that’s the way it is, here. “You’re not used to your own body anymore. A couple of months isn’t enough. You need to rest, and then we’ll catch up later.”

“I wanted to see Steve,” she mumbles, half under her breath. “But you’re right.”

She leaves his room with Sam, who’s set up somewhere for her to stay for now.

As soon as they leave, a Wakandan nurse comes in. Bucky wheedles, using his most broken Xhosa, and manages to get his catheter removed. He’s threatened, though, in English, that if he falls over on his way to the toilet, it’ll be put back in and he’ll be restrained.

“We took a large bullet out of you, Ingcuka!” she says, reproof in her tone and her wagging finger. “Maybe you should have gone back to your goat farm, eh?”

Something about her cheery tone makes him grin too. “I thought I recognised your voice; Thandeka?”

“Yes,” she laughs, that throaty giggle he remembers so well whenever he got tired of eating in his hut and went to Birnin Zana. She was the one in the Xhosa restaurant, stirring the _isopho_ while studying on her fancy tablet. One time her ma, who owned the place, almost caught her, and Bucky hid the tablet under his jacket. He wants to be embarrassed that she just pulled a pipe out of his dick, but the merry twinkle in her eyes dissuades him.

“Now you must rest; yes, the wound healed fast – almost faster than we could work on it, but you have still lost a lot of blood, and you have not been eating well, we could tell.” She gives him another stern look, which is belied by the cheeky grin she leaves behind.

Bucky’s eyes start to close, like she put a spell on him, but he doesn’t want to go to sleep; he needs to talk to Sam, because if something’s wrong with Steve, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. Well, that’s a lie, his sarcastic inner voice tells him. You know exactly what you’ll do – accept it, as you always have.

Thankfully Sam comes in before his thoughts can eviscerate him more than the bullet did.

“So, my man – can you tell me what in the fuck you were thinking?” Sam’s stance, arms folded, legs spread, is very Captain America.

Bucky swallows that observation. “Which part?”

“Man, you’re lucky I’m not armed. The part where you almost got your damn fool self killed, that part. Why’nt you just lay low until the heat went away?”

Bucky shrugs. “Was tired of laying low. Wanted to . . . anyway,” he diverts, “how come so much of HYDRA was left? Pretty sure I only scratched the surface.”

“Yeah, these five years’ve been party all the time for scumbags, I guess,” Sam mused. “The only good thing about all your stunts is that you’ve exposed so much HYDRA shit, the government believes we need to do something about it.”

Guess that’s a good thing, Bucky thinks. About time. He wants to ask about Steve, doesn’t dare. He stares at his metal fingers instead. He hears a patient sigh, and the chair creaks as Sam sits down.

“Ok. Here’s the thing. Steve had a stroke, two weeks ago.” Sam’s voice is kind and slow, which is good, as Bucky is almost deafened by the buzzing in his head. “We asked some of the doctors here to have a look at him – Doctor Cho, and a neurologist from Wakanda who was visiting . . . They’re not sure if it’s just old age or the travel in time and space, but it doesn’t look good.”

Bucky nods. He wants to say something, can’t. He feels like his chest is open, a yawning gap, cracked open, his ribs all shattered.

“He wants to see you, I said I’d try, but-“

Bucky pulls back the blankets and takes out his IV, getting up in one abrupt movement. “Where are my clothes?”

Sam is standing in front of him, arms outstretched. “Man, it doesn’t have to be now!”

Bucky’s hackles rise. “Of course it has to be now! You think I don’t know, how quickly the old folks can go off after a stroke? And he’s old, like my grandpa, that’s what happened to him, I-“

Before he knows it, he’s sat on the floor, hands in his hair. “Why, Sam? Why would he do that? How could he leave me?”

There’s an ugly noise in the room, like the grinding of ancient gears, like machinery breaking down. Bucky realizes that it’s him, crying like a fucking baby. Jesus Christ, Barnes – the guys in Siberia ever caught you doing that, would have been a bullet to the back of the head, for sure. Not that he would have done that in Siberia. He’s often wondered, in his shitty apartment, why everything started falling apart in D.C., when he had decades in Russia without a misstep. Guess it helps when they just have commands to list, like one of those fucking computers you just talk to.

He comes to with his head pillowed in something warm and soft – when the blurry image resolves, he realizes he’s looking at a big fabric star. He groans.

“You’re gonna hold this over me forever, aint’ya, Wilson?”

Bucky hears the smile in Sam’s voice. “It makes for good blackmail material, sure. But I’m above all that, now.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and sniffs, clearing his throat. “So, this never happened?”

“It never happened,” Sam grins.

Bucky gets off the floor, feeling like a moron, conscious that he was planning to go out in a johnny with his ass hanging out the back. He knows clothes are informal nowadays, but not that informal. Also, he’s pretty sure it’s three in the morning. Anyway, he can shower and shave, make himself presentable.

“Hey, maybe you can clear up something for me,” Sam starts, not at all hiding that he wants to distract Bucky from striding out bare ass. “Why’d I have to phone the goddam Diocese of Brooklyn to find a priest who can hear Steve’s confession, and do all sorts of prayers in Latin?”

“What, Catholics don’t pray in Latin no more?” The church _changed?_ His pa must be rolling in his grave.

“Not since 1965, son, which is what I found out, after I, like the moron I am, said: sure, Steve! I’ll find you a priest who prays in Latin! How hard can it be?”

Bucky hid a grin. Like Sam didn’t enjoy every minute. In the month or so he’s gotten to know the man, he’s learned one thing: Sam loves a project.

“What I meant, was: since when is Steve Catholic?”

“Since birth? Or Baptism, I guess?” Bucky doesn’t get what’s going on, and then he does. “You mean the dog tags?”

Sam’s voice is dripping with patience. “Yes, _James,_ the dog tags. Yours too. Unless the P on yours is right.”

“You know those aren’t the originals, right – the ones in the Smithsonian. I saw the plaque under them which said that, and anyway, I was wearing mine when I fell.”

Sam’s glare has heat Bucky can feel on his skin. He’s missed this. “Look, Catholics were not popular, back in the day. Captain America, a Catholic? No, sir. Steve told me he wrestled with his conscience a little, went to talk to a priest, and was told to see it as a sacrifice.”

He remembers that conversation like it’s yesterday, which is weird, considering all that he doesn’t remember. “Mine didn’t matter as much.” Bucky shrugs. “Hell, the museum even got the date wrong, when I fell from the train, so . . . “

There’s a muscle jumping in Sam’s jaw, and, for once, Sam’s not angry at _him_. Bucky wants to say something but is stumped. He never mattered, he knows that.

Later, after sunrise, and a good shower followed by a huge meal, Bucky’s still thinking about Steve and his priest. He wants to make his confession? On the one hand, Bucky understands. The lessons of his youth, the Catholic dogma drummed into him as soon as he was old enough to listen, stick with him. And the most important of all was being right with God before you died. The Last Rites, the be all and end all of every Catholic. How you had to be in a state of Grace to receive them. Bucky holds back a laugh. He isn’t in a state of Grace, hasn’t been in a long time.

Bucky’s never been devout like that, not like Steve. As soon as he left his father’s home for an army barracks, he left all that behind him. There was no-one to check whether he attended Mass, went to confession, how long he spent in the confessional, and what he looked like after. Believing in a loving God with a plan for mankind died along with the first soldier blown apart in front of him. Anything left was scraped out by Zola’s attentions.

They arrive in a retirement home which reminds Bucky of a stately house in the English countryside, which he’s sure he’s seen in the war, or in a movie. Once they enter, everyone knows Sam, is all smiles, and Bucky is happy for him. They tell him Steve is out in the gardens – sure enough, once they go out, there he is, sitting in a wheelchair, looking out at a grassy plain with flowers and a pond. The other residents are walking or being rolled.

It’s a lovely sunny day, and Bucky wishes he could be anywhere else. Why did he ever think he wanted to see Steve like this? Sam stays behind to ask the doctors something, and Bucky approaches Steve, who turns to look at him, before he can say a word.

“Bucky?” Steve’s smile breaks out on an unfamiliar face, and there his friend is. “You look . . . you cut your hair . . . it’s just like it was, back home,” Steve says, eyes still the same, even though the face is not.

“Yeah,” Bucky answers. “Didn’t wanna scare you, old man.”

Steve smiles again, tired this time. “There’s my Bucky,” he whispers, already exhausted. “Where you been, buddy?”

Bucky sits in the grass at Steve’s feet, boneless. It’s come upon him sudden, like – this feeling of exhaustion. He remembers that he got shot yesterday, and he hasn’t slept. He leans his head against Steve’s leg, the tears pricking his eyes, as he feels a hand drop to card through his hair.

“Around,” he says vaguely.

It strikes him as soon as he sees Steve sitting there, looking decades older already, that he can’t tell Steve everything. Maybe he can’t tell Steve _anything,_ because Steve can barely take a simple conversation. All Bucky can do is spend time with him, the short time Steve has left. Bucky knows he doesn’t want to hear about Steve’s _beautiful_ other life, Steve’s wife, Steve’s . . . kids? Never mind. He doesn’t want to know.

Soon, the hand in his hair stops, and Bucky senses that Steve is asleep. He scrubs at his face, willing the stupid tears to stop. His pa would have belted him, crying like a woman. Though he guesses it’s ok nowadays, huh. Everyone’s so damned eager to share their feelings, vomiting emotions on each other, like that’s gonna change anything. Once he feels he’s in control, he starts pushing Steve back in, but a nurse takes over.

Turning back to the main building, Bucky sees Sam and Natasha in the doorway. He shakes his head, and, even at this distance, sees the disappointment on her little face. That’s the way it is, he thinks. Not everything can be resolved, explained, justified.

When he decided to spend time in Wakanda – to run away, his traitor brain insists – he thought there was time for him and Steve, to work things out. Sure, Steve rejected him, back in Brooklyn, before the war, but now they were the only ones left, and he thought, maybe . . . Well, he thought they would talk, he even planned what to say, wanted to abase himself, didn’t care about being second best, just that he was here, and they were both alive.

Bucky knows it isn’t healthy, he knew it even then. He didn’t care. But then life has other ideas, crazy aliens have other ideas, and before he knows it, five years are gone. Just like that, he watches his hands flake away into nothing on a beautiful morning in Wakanda, and falls, again. When he wakes up, face first in the loam, it's been no time at all, he thinks. But, deep down, he knows that can’t be true. Even before the guy who looks like a stage magician tells him the truth, he can feel it.

That Steve, the Steve on the battlefield, the one who hugged him goodbye, he was a stranger to him, even more than this old man who can’t keep awake for a conversation. What happened to Steve in those five years?

“It’s not easy to understand,” Sam says. They’re in a coffee shop halfway to the Tower. Both Bucky and Natasha are equally depressed – Sam seems to think he can cheer them up using sugar. Though Bucky does feel a little happier when a lady compliments him and Sam on their lovely daughter. Even Natasha smirks a little, then asks Sam in a high-pitched voice for another muffin, calling him ‘daddy’.

“Have I ever told you that I hate you both?” Sam groans into his hands.

“You love us,” Bucky tosses off, grinning at the surprised (and pleased) look on Sam’s face. “Come on, tell us what happened to Steve, from your great wisdom of being dead.”

Natasha butts in. “I might have something to contribute, fellas.” She picks at her muffin, chewing on her lower lip.

“We all scattered, I guess. I mean, we lived in the complex, me and Steve, but it’s not like we saw each other a lot. I kept in touch with Danvers, Rhodey and the others, putting out fires.” She hesitates again, looking at them through her lashes. “Steve ran the support groups; I never went to any meetings. Maybe I should have; maybe I would have seen what he was going to do.”

“It’s like I’m saying,” Sam interrupts, “losing . . . everything, everyone – it was just too much, y’know? He just needed to go back when everything was safe, was ok, when he could have a marriage, and kids . . . white picket fence stuff.”

But we came back, Bucky wants to scream, we all came back. Sam is alive, Wanda is alive, half the planet is alive, and yes – I’m here too, dammit. He clears his throat instead.

“Steve never wanted any of that stuff. Before.”

Sam shrugs. “I’m just spitballing, man. It’s like, since he came out of the ice, he’s been losing, losing, losing. All of us, gone, the family he made. It was just too much. And it doesn’t matter that we all came back, I guess. It was five years – the mind needs to protect itself, and it does that by putting barriers between itself and the pain, whatever causes the pain. No, going into an idealized past is not a realistic solution, for any of us. But it was the one thing without pain, for him.”

No pain? Bucky can feel the plastic table giving way under his metal fingers. No, because _he_ suffered all the pain. He doesn’t remember all the torture, but the part he does remember is bad enough. He remembers being beaten, burned, frozen; he remembers being drowned and revived, water pumped out of his lungs, only to be drowned again. He has a vivid flash of the first time he forgot his ma’s name, his sisters’ faces, and the glee in Zola’s eyes when he did. He remembers-

A small hand is patting his, and he looks up into knowing green eyes. Lips curl in a tiny smile. Natasha bats her eyelashes at Sam. “Did you practice that speech for one of your support groups?”

“And here I didn’t believe you were Natasha, at first,” Sam answers, rolling his eyes.

Bucky snickers. He’s starting to enjoy this dynamic.

The next day he visits Steve again, getting a pack of cards with him. He wonders if Steve even remembers those evenings spent playing spades with the commandos, and at first is reluctant to even show the pack. But Steve’s eyes light up as soon as he sees it, and his ‘come on, deal’ is as forceful as he remembers.

In the meantime, things are progressing at Wakanda Tower, which is what he’s calling it, no matter how much it annoys Fury. But the man’s reaction when he meets mini-Romanoff is enough to make Bucky feel for the guy. He could swear there’s a tear in his eye, and the hand he reaches out to put on her shoulder is shaking before it lands.

They give Natasha her own apartment; at first it was suggested (Bucky can’t remember by whom) that she could share with Wanda – one cool glare out of green eyes that were far too adult for their face fixed that. Fury fixes it so she has access to her bank accounts; he also gets Child Services off her back, makes her an emancipated minor. 

Even when she does things which seem childlike, like insist on adopting two shelter kittens, she’s still thinking like an adult. “Look, I’m not going on any missions, anytime soon – right?”

Bucky doesn’t need to look around him to see the intense head-shaking that’s happening, and he suspects Natasha is more annoyed than she wants to let on. He’s sitting on the floor, letting one of the kittens bat at his metal hand, while the other is stalking her sister’s tail.

“Even though at this age, I was already going on missions for the Red Room?”

“Especially because of that!” comes Fury’s agonized yelp, and Bucky smothers a chuckle.

Bucky decides to butt in before someone suggests Natasha try to relive the childhood she should have had, and get themselves verbally eviscerated.

“Yeah, these ladies will keep you plenty busy!” Bucky adds, getting a raised eyebrow of thanks headed his way.

Nat joins him on the carpet, and both kittens launch themselves at her. She’s lonely, Bucky realizes, and could kick himself. All her friends feel uncomfortable being around her, ‘cause she looks and sounds like a little girl. Her best friend doesn’t even remember her, and her oldest friend – well. If he can do anything helpful, he’s gonna persuade her to see Barton. He would want to know.

“So, you thought of any names yet,” Fury asks, and there’s something in his voice. He likes cats? The great spymaster and Cold War manipulator has a weakness?

“Blini and Sushka,” the little voice answers, and Bucky snorts.

“A pancake and a sweet bread? Really?” He grabs the bundle of orange fur, and the tiny kitten falls asleep in his hands, just like that.

Blini is curled up in Natasha’s lap, small head drooping as her energy runs out, and Natasha strokes her with a finger.

“Because they’re so sweet,” she answers, almost cooing, then glares at him, daring him to make something of it. “Anyway, I do want to do stuff I never had the chance to, before. I don’t know, being a tourist without planning an assassination would be nice. And I always wanted a cat. Now I have two,” she adds with a certain glee, and Bucky can’t hold back the smile.

“Hey man, is your face s’posed to do that?” Sam asks, and Bucky raises his middle finger without even looking.

“Not in front of the kids!” Nat gasps in mock horror, pretending to shield Sushka’s eyes. “I bought all the stuff they need, and toys, and I have two big, _strong_ men who’re going to assemble all the cat furniture.”

Fury gives her a stern look. “Stop it.”

Sam is also not amused, but he handles it differently; he ignores it. Bucky agrees – Natasha’s not a child, so she’s gonna be pushing even more boundaries. Also, he doesn’t want to know what the Red Room had her doing even when she was really eleven.

Plus, Bucky knows the real reason why she’s annoyed, and is trying to distract herself with kittens and sightseeing: he’s been given the go-ahead to take part in a mission, with Sam and this new guy, U.S. Agent. He hardly dares ask what the problem was before, but Sam tells him anyway. Apparently, Ross never got over the whole Berlin thing, especially when Steve got Sam and the others out of his special secret prison. The fact that he was dusted with the rest of them didn’t help. Seeing Bucky at Stark’s funeral was the last straw, and he spent the next month gathering enough ‘evidence’ to issue an arrest warrant.

“So, how did you get Ross off my back?” Bucky asks, on the way to the mission-planning meeting.

“You helped a bit with that,” Sam answers. “No-one knew that HYDRA was still around before you started taking them down. They weren’t pleased either that we were being sent on missions in other jurisdictions while a terrorist organization was operating on U.S. soil. Also, I don’t know if you saw my media blitz, but-“

“I saw,” Bucky says, corners of his mouth twitching. “Full on charm offensive. Didn’t know you felt that way about me, Sam.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Screw you, dude.”

Bucky tsks a little, channeling his ma. “Such language, and wearing the stars and stripes, no less.” He holds it or a few seconds. “I’m grateful. You know that, right?”

Sam’s eyes widen. “Nuh-uh homie, be an asshole again. We’re in the shit now, no emotions allowed.”

“I thought you modern fellas were all about the feelings,” Bucky snarks, rolling his eyes. They’re the first ones in the conference room, and Bucky is still half-waiting for the doors to burst open and armed men to pour in, like in Bucharest. Sam notices that he’s checking the exits, and doesn’t roll his eyes. Interesting. So Sam doesn't trust them completely, yet.

Half an hour later, they’ve been joined by Walker, Sharon Carter, Lang, Hope Van Dyne, Rhodes, and a few others he doesn’t know. Ross isn’t there, and Bucky’s glad.

“Hey, where’s the Spiderkid?” Sam asks, and two people answer at the same time, one pointing out that he’s still in school.

The other’s Walker. “Don’t you think we got enough insects here already, am I right?”

Bucky dislikes him instantly. Appearance wise, he looks like any other tall guy built like a brick shithouse. He’s fair-skinned, blond and blue-eyed – no wonder they wanted to make him into the new Cap. After this, Bucky's gonna tell Sam how much Walker resembles Hitler’s Aryan ideal; Sam always said there was only one reason they didn't want him as Captain America, and he was right.

The others don’t seem to like him either, if the fake laugh from Hope Van Dyne means anything. Bucky’s pretty sure Lang is being physically restrained from pointing out that a spider isn’t an insect. But maybe he’s mistaken. Maybe Walker’s just not good with the jokes. That doesn’t mean he can’t lead a team.

“So, we have a new team member joining us today – the – “ Walker pretends to read from some documents in front of him, “Winter Soldier?”

Sam shakes his head and gives Bucky a look, narrowing his eyes. Yeah, yeah. It’ll take more than some snot-nosed kid to make him lose his temper. Instead, he smiles with his teeth, makes his arm recalibrate and whir, the sound startling in the suddenly quiet room. No, he doesn’t need to do that anymore, but he likes the effect.

Bucky meets Walker’s eyes. “That _was_ me; now I’m just Barnes.” 

“Everyone needs a call-sign,” Walker insists, and Bucky wonders if this guy has a death wish.

Bucky leans back, folding his arms, making sure that all the light in the room reflects off his left. Not for nothing did he spend five minutes choosing his seat. “In Wakanda they used to call me ‘Wolf’.”

“Why is that? Did you eat all their sheep?”

Sam is just building up to a sharp retort, Bucky senses it, but Van Dyne beats him to it.

“Oh, it’s dick-measuring day!” She looks around her with a cheery smile. Scott’s own is like a rictus. “Scott, you could have told me!”

No matter how much time he spends in this century, he’s never going to get used to women cursing like sailors. He wonders if his ma ever wished she could just let rip without getting shocked looks and Father O'Shaughnessy visiting the next day. She probably did. And she’d have liked this Wasp lady. She’d have liked her a lot.

“Hey, Bu- Barnes has a call-sign now,” Sam says, taking over. Nice catch, Bucky thinks. Walker will _really_ be impressed if he hears that Captain America calls him ‘Bucky’. “So, can we get to it? In case we need to know what he adds to the table, it’s in his file, or I can tell you right now: he’s the best sniper operating currently, he’s skilled in knife-fighting, hand to hand, covert entry, he packs a mean punch, and the first time we met, he totaled my car and ripped off one of my wings.”

Hope is snickering, Scott is trying to suppress a smile, and Bucky groans. “I said I was _sorry!_ Anyway, didn’t you do that counseling stuff? How about some compassion, huh?”

This is a double act they’ve perfected, he and Sam. The signal to start was Sam mentioning the car on the Roosevelt bridge. Sharon Carter is looking from one to the other, eyes narrowed. Then she leans back, satisfied. The only one who doesn’t see through it is Walker, which is good.

Walker interrupts with the mission details, and Bucky, who can do this stuff in his sleep, starts evaluating what just happened. Because this is not ideal. He never expected to be welcomed with open arms; but he didn’t expect outright hostility, either. He wonders if this is all a bait for a trap – either to make him do something drastic and get himself kicked off the team . . . or . . .

After he answers the second question on autopilot, he wrenches himself back to the meeting with an effort. He’ll discuss this with Sam when they’re clear.

They end up not having time to talk, because Sam spends hours in meetings, and the mission starts at 0400 the next day. Before he knows it, he’s standing in front of a new kind of tac gear, made for him. It's black, but not leather, and doesn't have all the straps which used to drive him crazy. The jacket has two sleeves.

Scott’s there too, looking at him nervously. He’s suited up, though the ant helmet is down, still.

“No-one was really sure why you had the one-armed jackets, and Walker was worried about the arm catching the light.”

Bucky nods. He hears footsteps, smells Sam’s cologne, rolls his eyes. He’s gonna have to teach his friend what covert really means. Instead of saying something, though, he reaches out to the jacket, fingering the left sleeve.

“My old arm – the plates used to catch on sleeves. I don’t think this one does that. Still, except for night missions, I’d like no left sleeve. I’m used to it.”

In the newly refurbished Quinjet, he observes the others. Carter keeps checking her guns, Wasp is relaxed, almost asleep, and Lang is doing card tricks. Sam and Walker are piloting, which gives them the opportunity to have a hushed conversation. Walker’s uniform, now – there's an obvious attempt to replicate Stev- no, Sam’s. The only difference is that the stripes are horizontal instead of vertical. Of course, Sam has his goggles and those damn wings.

They tell him to find himself a nest, and he does. Today they’re taking down an organization called AIM – Bucky has no idea what they’re planning, but it’s something bad. He has a fancy sniper rifle which he’s gradually falling in love with, and his cross-hairs are fixed on one exit.

The idea is to wait for Walker and Sam to breach, and then only kill when they’re being attacked. Well, they certainly are that, Bucky thinks, as the doors open and a horde of men with guns pour out. Bucky admits he’s nonplussed by the yellow overalls at first. But once they shoot some kind of laser-gun, miss Carter by a whisker, and make a wall vanish, Bucky gets to it, dispatching one after the other with a certain efficiency.

Of course, it’s only a matter of time before the AIM goons trace the trajectory of his shots. He’s on the roof of an adjacent building, and seconds after Sam yells “Wolf, they’re converging on your position!” he has his own horde of yellow overalls to fight. He can’t help enjoying the hand to hand – it’s been a while since he did something besides shoot hostiles. And the HYDRA goons in the research labs never gave him much of a fight. One or two of them try to shoot him, but what he doesn’t deflect using his arm has no chance against his new Kevlar gear.

Once a familiar set of wings soar over him and he catches a flash of light reflecting a shield, he’s surrounded by a pile of AIM goons, most of them still breathing. Sam lands quietly next to him, retracting his wings. Bucky can’t hold back a snort.

“How do you see anything through those goggles?”

Sam gives him an irritated glare, or Bucky thinks he does, except he can’t see Sam’s eyes.

“They’re night vision,” Sam snaps.

“Oh, great. So, if the bad guys have a flash grenade, you’re blind.”

“They switch, obviously.”

“Fast enough to stop you from losing vision for a couple of seconds?” Bucky isn’t asking out of idle curiosity, or just to piss Sam off. Though it _is_ fun.

Really, though. He knows Sam loves the goggles, but they should not be any part of night-time engagements. He’s this close to asking who the hell’s in charge of this popsicle stand, but, as the new guy, hesitates. Even so, looking at his left arm, where the material of his tac jacket is in shreds, because no-one thought he wore one-armed gear for a reason, he persists.

Sam opens his mouth and closes it again. “Wait, you . . . you had goggles, right?”

“Not at night,” Bucky answers. “A few seconds can make the difference between life and death in the field.”

“You’re right. I hate to admit it, but you’re right.”

Just then, both their earpieces crackle to life.

“Back to base, Cap, Wolf.” Bucky and Sam exchange a look. This discussion isn’t over, but they’ll talk later. Who’s in charge of the gear? Bucky would dearly like to know.

The next few days, or weeks will be taken up with meetings about the mission – trying to decide if they’re gonna use me or send me to the scrapyard, Bucky thinks – so he takes the opportunity to visit Steve again. He’s mostly lucid, though Bucky really doesn’t like his color, but whenever he asks Steve how he’s feeling, the snappy terrier comes back out from where he was hiding and damn near bites his head off.

Then one day Steve is distant and detached. He doesn’t want to play cards, keeps looking at Bucky like he wants to talk. Then he doesn’t.

“Come on, Steve. Just spit it out.”

The head-shake and smile are so familiar, it’s like a giant hand is reaching into his heart and squeezing. “You know me too well, Buck.”

Bucky can practically see the wheels turning in Steve’s head.

“I had this strange dream, last night. It felt . . . different. Not weird, like dreams are. I was on Vormir again; wait, do you know about that?”

There’s something icy crawling up Bucky’s spine. But he nods, and mumbles a few words which sounded like ‘soul stone’ and ‘Romanoff’.

Steve gives him a sharp look, but goes on, his hoarse voice getting stronger with each word. “I was returning the Soul stone. They’d told me about the Red Skull, but seeing him in person again was . . . hard to . . . he was nothing, there. He wasn’t that arrogant creature anymore. He was faded, somehow.”

Steve leans back in his wheelchair and Bucky would like very much to see where all this is going. But he knows he can’t rush Steve. He never could. That just makes him dig his heels in.

“Anyway, I tried to bargain with him. I told him I wanted Nat back; that I was returning the stone – a soul for a soul. He said it didn’t work that way, we argued, he said I had to give something up, something I loved.”

Bucky’s eyes are wet. How the hell did that happen? What's with all the crying? “Just tell me, Steve.”

“It was you. I gave you up. And Sam, Wanda, everyone here, this life I’d made, I gave up everything, except . . . “

“Except Carter.” Bucky was wrong, before. The pain is everywhere, all around, it's like being in the chair again, skin on fire.

“Except Peggy. The soul stone was the last one I returned. I woke up in front of Peggy’s house, in ’48. When I saw my picture on her desk in 1970, I thought . . . maybe. And-“

When Steve’s voice goes silent, Bucky looks up, freezes. Steve’s face is sagging on one side, his eye is drooping, gazing vacantly. And Bucky rises like the machine he was turned into, many years ago, puts Steve’s frail body over one shoulder, runs for the house, calling for help.

There is always a medical team on standby at the retirement home, for Steve. They take over quickly and efficiently, but no-one tells Bucky anything, so he sits in the lobby, open hands resting on his knees, until Sam and Natasha burst through the doors. He barely remembers calling Sam. His phone is still in his hand.

“Hey man . . . hey.” Sam looks harried, and Natasha’s eyes are red-rimmed. “Is it . . . ? Was it . . . ?”

“He had another stroke,” Bucky says, his voice breaking at the end. He rubs his hand over his eyes roughly. Why, why is this tearing him apart? He's known this moment was coming ever since that day by the lake, ever since he thought that old man looked familiar.

Sam is about to add something, when one of the nurses approaches. She’s one he knows, from the Dominican Republic, Purificacion, though she likes to be called Puri. And yes, he tells the little voice in his head, he is probably in shock, but that’s the disadvantage of being a person again. These things, they knock you for six.

“Mr Barnes,” she says, and the three of them look at her. This can’t be it, Bucky insists. And it isn’t. “Father Jake and Steve would like to see you.”

Bucky swallows. “Is Steve . . . ?”

Puri’s dark eyes fill with sympathy. He must be lookin’ pretty pathetic. “He is conscious, yes. But don’t expect too much.”

“Go on, dude. Go on,” Sam waves him forward, and Natasha nods.

When Bucky enters the room, he sees that the priest has already prepared all that’s needed for the last rites, and he feels sick to his stomach. Why is he here? He looks at Steve, who beckons to him, and Bucky sits at his side, as he’s done so many times in the past.

“I need to make my confession, Buck. I need to get right with God . . . and with you.”

Bucky looks up at the priest, who sighs. “This is highly irregular . . . I’m going to have to confess it myself, but I will allow Mr Barnes to . . . overhear your confession. Simply because you do not have the strength to make it twice.”

The priest’s rolling tones make him miss Wakanda with a pain that’s almost physical, and he feels the horrible temptation to ask Father Jake whether he’s Xhosa.

Bucky helps Steve make the sign of the cross, guiding his hand, like he's a child. Steve holds onto him when he’s done. Then, after the traditional words to the priest, Steve starts talking. And talking. The hoarse voice doesn’t stop, even though Steve’s body seems to be getting feebler by the minute. There’s parts when Bucky would like nothing more than to get up and run out of the room, but Steve’s grip is still so strong. Bucky imagines that all the strength in his withered body has drained into his hand, holding onto Bucky, and his voice.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry, Buck, I’m sorry, please, please – “ Steve’s getting more and more agitated, and Bucky’s murmured reassurances aren't helping. He looks up at Father Jake, who nods, and Bucky bends down to whisper in Steve’s ear.

“I forgive you. I love you, Steve, and I forgive you.”

Steve runs out of steam, and Father Jake takes over, for which Bucky is thankful. He directs them to say an Act of Contrition together, and even though Father Jake gives Bucky a card to read from, the old words come back, like it was yesterday they were getting beat into him. Contrition was always in English, as it was important to know what you were saying. Somehow, that always made it harder for Bucky to remember, when he was a kid. But now . . .

“Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee . . . “ Bucky murmurs, wondering if there’s a special hell for someone who fakes remorse. Maybe he can ask the priest for an indulgence, he thinks.

Lost in his thoughts, he almost missed the priest absolving Steve, and crosses himself absentmindedly.

_“Ego te absolvo . . . Dominus noster Jesus Christus te absolvat . . . “_

As the words of the absolution wash over them both, Steve’s entire body seems to sigh in relief. Bucky knows the priest wants to go on with the extreme unction, so when the absolution ends, Bucky asks if he can get Sam.

Father Jake nods, and Bucky feels like he’s been released, like he's floating out of the room, his body moving on its own. He can’t deal with what Steve told him right now, so he won’t. He’s going to lock it in a little box in his head, and not give it a second thought until he has to.

When he comes to the lobby, there’s a sight he never thought he would see – preteen Natasha sobbing into her hands, and Sam patting her awkwardly on the shoulder. They look up when they sense him approaching – both having spatial awareness out the wazoo – trying to hide a sudden terror.

Bucky makes a warding gesture with his hands; not yet, he means. “He’s getting the last rites. He doesn’t . . . it doesn’t look good.”

Bucky looks at his watch, and when he thinks the whole thing might be over, they all troop to Steve's room. When they get there, the priest is saying a final blessing. Bucky seems to remember the whole thing being much longer, but he guesses things have changed. He suspects Steve was only homesick for the Latin, the feel of home. He absentmindedly joins in on the amens when Steve does, and sees his eyes swivel to the side, brightening when they see Sam.

Then they rest on Natasha, growing wider. The priest gives them all a curious look, but says his goodbyes and leaves. And Steve stares at Natasha like he sees through her little-girl disguise. She walks up close, then bends over and whispers in his ear.

“Natasha, God,” Steve sobs, his voice broken. “What did I do to you?”

She strokes his head, shaking hers. “You saved me, Steve. Yeah, I’m a kid again. So what? At least I’m not dead!” The brilliant smile on her face finds a faint echo on his, but he’s fading fast.

Finally, Sam moves closer, and Bucky turns away. The naked emotion on Sam’s face is almost indecent – the pain there is something else. They communicate without words until Steve’s eyes slip closed. Though Sam gives him a worried look, Bucky shakes his head. He’s said his goodbyes, and that man, though he was his Steve, wasn’t really _his_ Steve. As they drive home, Bucky wonders if he’ll ever tell them what happened on Vormir. Would it help, or hinder?

It doesn’t come as a surprise, the next day, when Puri phones from the home to tell them Steve slipped into a coma. He’s even left instructions for that – no extraordinary measures should be taken to save him. And the very next morning, Sam’s phone rings again, this time in a meeting with Walker, and only Walker. Bucky’s fingers tighten on the table and he has to force himself to let go. Sam turns back, his face ashen.

“He’s gone.” Then he winces, clearly remembering what Bucky told him once, about hating euphemisms. “He died half an hour ago.”

Bucky knows his face turns blank. Any sound in the room is replaced by a strange buzzing, a high-pitched whine. For a moment he’s back in Siberia, or the bank vault, waiting for current to pulse through him, welcoming it, almost. Then a creak from the table brings him back to the present – his metal hand is close to punching through the synthetic frame. He lets go, looking up into Walker’s curious eyes. That’s right – the guy is curious, looking at him as though through a microscope. Bucky can practically read his thoughts – is he gonna freak? Can I put him down now? Huh, Bucky thinks. So that’s how it is. He blinks a couple of times, sneers.

When Bucky gets up, he’s as calm as ever, while Sam is having a moment. He’s looking away, holding back the tears with an effort, eyes shiny. On the way to the home, Sam tells him Steve already made arrangements for the funeral – something simple at the Blessed Visitation in Red Hook. Bucky smiles. Of course. Their old parish, still standing after all this time. Sam is still talking, saying that Steve never mentioned a eulogy or anything.

“Catholic Mass, Sam. No eulogies. And since he apparently didn’t want a state funeral, no 21-gun salute, either.”

“You know, in the years I’ve known Steve, I never thought he was this-“

“Religious? Devout?” Bucky smiles, again. “That’s the church, Sam. You can run as far as you like, she’ll get ya in the end. They trained us too well. We’ll never get away.”

Sam gives him a sideways glance as they pull into the long gravel drive to the home. But he says nothing.

The days blur into one another until the day of the funeral. Bucky wears a suit, this time, glad his hair is still fairly short. As he checks his tie in the mirror, he catches his eye and barely restrains himself from putting his fist through the glass. No, he can't. He can't break down now. This was Steve's choice, all of it. He'll break down once all hope is gone. For now, he has to keep it together.

The Mass is in English for the benefit of the congregation, and as Steve requested, it’s a simple ceremony, just one priest, and a sermon in which Father Jake talks about the power of sacrifice. When it comes to carrying Steve out to the hearse, Bucky is there, at the front – Sam on the other side. They’ve draped the Stars and Stripes over the coffin, but there’s nothing more to indicate that the deceased was anyone special. When they carefully lower the coffin onto the platform in the hearse, Bucky's surprised by a tear dripping off his chin, onto one of the flower arrangements. He watches the coffin slide in, and feels a handkerchief being pressed into his hand. He takes it without looking, scrubbing at his face. Come on, Barnes. Come on.

Afterwards, Bucky’s asked Sam to organize a kind of wake at the Tower. He’s also asked a couple of people to stay behind – specific people. God, he isn’t looking forward to this. On the other hand, he wants to get moving. As he stands in the cemetery, after everyone has left, he also wants to yell and spit at Steve. Why, why did Steve do this to him? Sam puts a hand on his shoulder, making him jump. That’s how bad it is, Bucky thinks. His spatial awareness is shot to hell.

“Come on, man.” Bucky knows Sam is struggling for something comforting to say, even as he feels crushed.

Bucky realizes he doesn’t know that much about Sam – he knows about Sam’s mom, and sister, but not if Sam has a lady . . . or a fella; even though it still feels strange to him, that’s kind of ok, nowadays. Imagine: the feelings he agonized over, the ones he confessed, when he still felt he had to – nowadays, it’s all good. Mostly.

He sniffs, scrubs at his eyes, claps Sam on the shoulder. “Yeah, let’s go. Hey Sam,” he asks, as they walk to the car, “d’you have a girl? Or a guy?”

Sam stumbles over a protruding headstone, almost wiping out. “Do not make me cuss in a cemetery, geez! What brought this on?”

Bucky shrugs. “Just curious, I guess.”

“It’s not that easy meeting someone when you gotta be Captain America. Though there’s a barista in the Starbucks down the road from the tower, always gives me extra latte. And she gets my name right on the cup.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “What about –“ then he stops. Shit. He knows how that went.

“You caught that, huh?” Sam bites back a sigh. “When I first met Nat – then we went on the run together . . . there was a chance, sure, more than one. But she was still pretty hung up on Barton, who has a family. And then Thanos happened. And now-“

“And now she’s a kid.” They get into the car. “So,” Bucky says, “you gonna go ten, fifteen years into the future, so you got a chance?”

“Fuck you, dude,” Sam says, his tone amiable. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but that was messed up.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. Tell me about it, he thinks. And you don’t know the half of it.

Bucky tries as much as he can to avoid everyone at the fake Irish wake he’s set up. It’s fake because there’s not nearly enough drinking or singing of old songs – not one Danny Boy, though FRIDAY murmurs in his ear that she’s willing, if he insists. He must have sub-vocalized rather than thought that. He’s got an earpiece in because he wants to be absolutely sure there’s no-one hacking them, no visual or audio surveillance besides FRIDAY herself, and enough warning if they’re attacked from the air.

One by one, the casual friends and acquaintances trickle out, until they’re left with the core group only. There’s Scott Lang, but not Hope – he doesn’t know her well enough. There’s Sharon Carter, Bruce, T’Challa, Shuri and Okoye, but not Colonel Rhodes. He appreciates the man coming to Steve’s funeral, but he was always Stark’s friend, not Steve’s. Of course, Natasha is there, curled up in an armchair, like one of her cats, hearing everything, saying nothing.

Bucky tries to think of a way to get to the point of what he needed to say, but T’Challa is too perceptive to let him struggle.

“So, my friend. Why is it that you have gathered us here?”

All eyes turn to Bucky, who swallows. Sam is swirling a tumbler of scotch, and looking at him steadily. The others seem puzzled, except for Shuri, whose eyes are widening. She seems to be putting two and two together. Better haul ass.

“When Steve went back to the past, he didn’t complete a loop. He started another timeline.”

There are gasps, but not that many. Banner is nodding like he always knew it, but he probably did. Bucky’s sure Steve mentioned Banner talking about this before they fought Thanos.

“That’s exactly what I told them,” Banner exclaimed.

“Wait a second,” Sam says, “how did he get back to us? I mean, he was on a bench, not on the platform.”

“Maybe he used the wrist thing,” Nat says, but Scott shakes his head.

“The bracelet is only a kind of time GPS – he needed the quantum portal on the platform to get back into our timeline.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. The worst thing about super-intelligent people is they get bogged down in all this crap.

“That’s not important. I’ll explain everything later. What is important is that he changed the timeline, and that timeline’s Steve was never found in 2012. He’s still there, frozen. I need to find him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. Sorry. 
> 
> I decided to go with the (probably) comics canon of Catholic Steve - with a really high percentage of Irish immigrants being Catholic, it made more sense to me. With Bucky and Steve being friends in the schoolyard or whatever, it made more sense to make them both Catholics - in that era, being altar boys at the same time (they're just one year apart) would really consolidate a friendship.
> 
> The "no crying in baseball" thing comes from A league of their Own (1992), a movie about the female baseball league that was started in 1943, when male baseball players went off to fight. 
> 
> I always get annoyed when people act like Bucky is like Steve just out of the ice - he spent at least a year in a modern European city, and then another two years in the most technologically advanced country on earth. Once you've watered all your crops and fed all your goats, you have to do something. And you can't tell me that Wakanda doesn't have the world's fastest internet.
> 
> Almost forgot: Isopho yombona is a traditional soup for the Xhosa culture in the Eastern Cape. It is made from dried maize kernels and sugar beans.
> 
> The explanation for Natasha, the reasons for Steve being so weird in Endgame etc, those are all my own headcanon. This is how I can deal with Endgame in my fic. In real life - eh. I'm still in the Anger/Denial stage.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously: _Steve came back as an old man, and confessed the entirety of his life in the past, to Bucky.  
>  Bucky wants to find the Steve who was left in the ice. He could have broken it to them gently, though._

“Now, wait just a goddam minute!” Fury tries his best, but the yelling in the room doesn’t stop.

Everyone is asking Bucky something he can’t answer, all at the same time. He wants to ignore them all, leave, and do it all on his own. But he can’t – he isn’t that guy anymore. If these people are his friends, and he’s pretty sure that they are, he owes them an explanation. They’re not gonna like it, though.

Natasha is the only one who doesn’t speak. Her little smirk says it all.

A loud whistle from the hidden speakers in the room catches everyone’s attention. “Gentlemen . . . and ladies,” FRIDAY says, almost as an afterthought. Bucky’s tempted to roll his eyes. Sometimes the ‘schoolteacher from the old country’ impersonation is a little much.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam says, waving it off. “Look, Bucky. You can’t just spring that on us without . . . without . . . “

His eyes widen, like he’s seen a ghost. “Wait, wait – where did the shield come from? Did Steve take it from the other Cap, the one who’s still in the ice? Am I using somethin’ that’s been _looted?_ ”

Bucky goes cold all at once. Why didn’t he explain all this before? Of course Sam would jump to that conclusion. “No, of course not!”

Sam folds his arms, not convinced. “Gonna need more than that, broham.”

“Look, Steve said he took the pieces of the shield from the battlefield, after Thanos. Then, when he landed in the past, he gave them to Howard Stark. He’s the one who made it, after all. So, Stark fixed it.”

Sam nods, not completely convinced, Bucky can tell. But at least he’s gonna leave it, for now.

Someone clears his throat, and the sound pulls Bucky from his thoughts.

“Bucky – can I call you that?” The look on Banner’s face, gentle inquiry, is kinda weird on a 7-foot tall green guy. But Bucky nods, and Banner continues. “Why don’t you tell us exactly what Steve told you, about this alternate timeline?”

Yeah, maybe he should have started with that, Bucky thinks. Kinda unfair to spring it all on them in one go, Buck. He almost turns around, imagining that he hears the voice for real, but it’s just his fucked up brain, conjuring his friend back. The fact that he’s frozen in the middle of the room with his head down is made clear to him when someone pushes a glass of whisky in his hand. He looks up to see Sam’s gentle smile.

“Maybe you wanted vodka, instead?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You know I’m not actually Russian, right?”

He collapses into the chair he was sitting in earlier, and leans back, wondering where to start. He senses that the others are exchanging looks, but doesn’t want to confirm it, burying his face in the whisky glass at first, pretending to sip.

“His first intention was to fix SHIELD from the beginning, root out HYDRA.” Bucky shakes his head, lips twitching in a smile. “Overambitious asshole.” He drains the glass, determined to get through everything without drinking the room dry. Not that it would have any effect on him. “But Peggy Carter talked him out of that one. Too much, too soon, she said. They’d be showing their hand too early.”

He notices T’Challa and Shuri exchanging disapproving glances. Yeah, wouldn’t have been his plan, either. But it did work, kind of. Eventually.

“So, he started working on keeping the infinity stones out of Thanos’s hands in that timeline, at least. And he succeeded – at least that’s what he said. No . . . “ Bucky pauses, hating the various nicknames the entire event was given in the last few years. In the end, he snaps his fingers, meeting everyone’s eyes.

“What about Wakanda?” Shuri asks. Even though T’Challa pretends to look disapproving of the interruption, Bucky can tell he wants to know.

“Steve didn’t mention it,” Bucky answers, his tone as gentle as he can get it, nowadays. He loves these people, they’re his family, and he hates the thought that for Steve they meant nothing.

He rushes ahead, because Sam’s opening his mouth already. Bucky needs to delay the inevitable question, and maybe Sam will lose interest.

“He didn’t interfere with human stuff, as he called it – only things caused by enhanced humans, or aliens like Thor, for example. He was waiting when Thor came down in 2011, he managed to stop the alien invasion before it happened, there was no Ultron, and he’d been working from the 90s to finally root out and destroy HYDRA.”

Maybe that’s enough, Bucky thinks. Maybe they won’t need to hear more.

“Why so late?” Natasha’s heard enough, by the look of her, slanting eyes narrower than usual.

“What about you?” Sam asks, almost at the same time, arms folded across his chest.

Bucky doesn’t understand Sam’s question at first, and then, when he gets it, isn’t sure how to answer. Steve told him, but it was a bare bones story, at best. He turns to Romanoff, deciding to answer her first.

“Carter wanted to wait, to move slowly against double agents inside SHIELD. She thought that if they moved too soon, they wouldn’t be able to make a proper case against the most powerful people. The most powerful _men._ Someone like-“

Bucky’s throat clenches shut. Come on, come on. He can do this. He clears his throat, wishing he still had some whisky left. “People like Pierce. So they moved against Department X, things like that. Pretended they didn’t even _see_ HYDRA, until they were absolutely sure they had everyone.”

“Fine, fine, they played the waiting game, like we give a crap. What about _you?”_ Sam rolls his eyes, clearly out of patience. “The other you, obviously.”

“Yeah, I got it the first time,” Bucky snaps.

“Then answer the goddam question!” Sam says, eyes flashing.

“Boys, _boys,”_ Natasha interjects, and for a second, he hears the words in the smoky purr he remembers. Then he blinks, and she’s a little girl again, though one with a knowing smirk. Too knowing. She knows he’s stalling. He’s not sure how they’re gonna react to this.

He swallows, his throat so dry it practically clicks. “Yeah . . . Steve never really knew where they kept me, before Siberia, and even then-“

“Bullshit!” Oh, crap. Turns out Sam was only a little annoyed before. Now, he’s furious.

But he’s not the only one. Banner looks sickened, Shuri’s eyes are filling with tears, and T’Challa radiates regal disappointment. Not in him, something which Bucky barely believes. In Steve. Even Natasha is looking to one side, chewing on a fingernail. It wasn’t Steve’s fault, he wants to protest. He tried his best, Bucky’s sure of it. Anyway, it’s not like he was a priority.

Bucky forges ahead, determined to get it all out. “There was only one specific date when Steve knew where the Winter Soldier was: December 16th, 1991.”

Only Fury knows what Bucky’s talking about, though he isn’t helping. He is, in fact, rubbing his forehead, visible eye screwed shut. Even Natasha’s frowning. FRIDAY murmurs in his ear, “If I may . . . ?”

Bucky nods, mumbles something in agreement, hears FRIDAY’s voice.

“December 16th, 1991 – Howard and Maria Stark both died in a car accident. Only much later was it found out that they’d been assassinated.”

“By me.” The words slip out before he can stop them.

“No, it wasn’t you.” Man, what were the odds that Sam Wilson would one day become his greatest defender? “They switched you on and switched you off and tortured you in between. Anyone who’s tryin’ to hold you responsible for what you did then, is a damn fool.” Sam glares at Nick Fury as he speaks, and the man waves him off.

“Anyway. Steve knew the road they’d be on, got two SHIELD agents to be ‘Howard and Maria’, and had other me tranqed and captured.”

Bucky stops. This story doesn’t have a happy ending. “Steve couldn’t interrogate me himself, he said. They were trying to keep his presence there . . . hidden. Secret. I guess.”

“You trying to tell me _Steve Rogers_ spent seventy years hiding in Agent Carter’s basement?” Fury’s eye is wide, his eyebrows rising into his non-existent hairline.

Sam’s lips are twitching, but then they freeze, and his eyes narrow. Bucky glances away.

“I don’t know. He just said he never entered SHIELD HQ – so he heard everything second hand. And he read the file, of course.”

Sam is shaking his head, walks to the wall of windows, stares out, then turns back around. “Just tell us, Bucky.”

“The other me . . . after a few weeks in SHIELD custody . . . uh. He killed himself.”

The silence that falls is glacial. Bucky looks up, sees Shuri covering her mouth, T’Challa’s hand on her shoulder, squeezing. Nat is raising one eyebrow, humourless smirk twisting her lips.

“Uh, huh.” Fury has never sounded that sarcastic.

“I’ve been trying to square all this with the Steve I knew,” Sam interrupts, voice shaking. “I don’t understand – how could he let that happen? How could he live with himself, after?”

Bucky sits up, suddenly conscious he hasn’t really told anyone about Vormir, about what Steve did to get Natasha back. Did it matter, though?

“Steve was convinced it was suicide,” he says instead, choosing his words with care. “He would have known if they’d just . . . executed him. Me.”

Sam pours himself another whisky, shrugs. Bucky’s desperate for someone, anyone to interrupt. But no-one seems to want to say anything. He chews on his lower lip, spots Natasha, who’s sipping a soda, after her earlier attempt to sneak in some vodka was foiled.

“Um . . . he got you out – Natasha.”

“Did he now?” Natasha doesn’t seem overly impressed.

“Yes. He got the Red Room shut down. He freed everyone who was being made to work for them.”

Thankfully, Banner changes the subject before anyone points out that Steve saved everyone except for his best friend. It’s something that’s been nagging at Bucky, too, but whenever he tries to think about it, he sees Steve’s dying face, hears him begging for forgiveness. They don’t understand, he thinks. They weren’t there. He tries to concentrate on what Banner’s asking, instead.

“I still don’t understand how Steve got back to this timeline, this reality. He didn’t appear on the platform, and you told us he’d been living in that retirement home for a few years.”

Bucky feels a weight fall off his shoulders. Now _this_ he can explain. “You know Steve has – had – an eidetic memory.” Bucky stops, frozen. Yeah. _Had._ Because Steve’s dead. They put him in the ground, just today. His hand is shaking, and he clenches it into a fist. Not now. He can’t lose it now.

“He only needed a minute or two with the blueprints to your machine, design schematics, everything. He had the suit, the bracelet thing, he even had the Pym particles. He chose a good time, after the first snap, but years before the second, chose a good place, and set up the building of the platform, planning to come back to exactly that time, that place. Then, he really went into the past. He lived a life. I – “

Bucky’s voice dries up again. He loses his train of thought. His lips are stiff. Yeah, Steve lived his life. God, enough! He has to finish this, so he’ll ever have to talk about it again. He looks up, wondering why everyone’s blurred, realises it’s because his eyes are full of tears.

“Anyway, after Carter died, he decided it was time. So, he vanished, and reappeared in our timeline, on the platform.”

Banner is shaking his head, eyes shining. “Amazing!”

“So that’s why you think you can rescue the Steve who’s still in the Arctic – in that timeline.” Nat is tapping her lip. “Did he leave you Pym particles, too?”

Bucky nods. “Yeah. He left them in a storage vault, put it in my name. Gave me codes and everything. He knew which banks would still be standing, after.”

“That doesn’t solve the problem of how we’re going to find Steve, if our Steve didn’t manage in 70 years,” Sam adds, then ends in a mumble. “If he even _tried.”_

Bucky stops himself from sighing in relief, but it’s a close thing. That ‘we’ is everything he’s been hoping for. Not that he isn’t gonna give Sam a hard time about it.

“We?”

Sam’s eyes narrow. “Hope you didn’t think you were going it alone, homie. The last time I let my friend go on a round trip in time and space without me, an old man came back.”

Bucky can finally smile again, and Sam answers it with the same, though it’s like he’s trying to stop himself and glare instead.

“That doesn’t solve the problem of how you’re going to find Steve – if the other Steve didn’t manage.” Fury always hits the nail on the head, Bucky thinks, and at least he’s diplomatic enough not to mention that maybe Steve never looked.

Bucky starts with “I was hoping-“ but is interrupted.

“You go to Wakanda, that’s what you do!” Shuri’s as fierce as ever, and T’Challa smiles down at her, proud. “Our technology is unparalleled in any reality! Besides, you can meet alternate me and tell me who’s the best me.”

“Shuri,” T’Challa groans.

“Gotta admit, that was what I was hopin’ for,” Bucky says. “Not the ‘who’s the best Shuri’ competition, the other thing,” he grins, and is answered with a shrug. “But how are we gonna convince them to help us? I don’t even know if Wakanda’s borders are still shut over there.”

Everyone looks at Shuri, who looks at her brother, raising her eyebrows. He smiles at the room.

“Remember the Wakandan passport we gave you, James?”

Sure he does. It’s been in a drawer in his apartment this whole time; he never thought he’d need it that soon.

“Every Wakandan passport has a special nano-chip, invisible to the naked eye, which can only be activated by our technology. Once activated, it functions as a set of kimoyo beads, through which recordings can be left, communications can be made, and so on.”

Shuri interrupts, again. “And we can leave a special message – in Wakandan.”

T’Challa attempts to quell her with a look, but that’s never worked on Shuri, and it’s not gonna work now. “Yes, in Wakandan. Our secret ancestral language, which is never spoken in the presence of outsiders.”

“I didn’t speak it, did I?” Shuri retorts. “I only spoke _of_ it.”

Bucky shakes his head, lips twitching. He’s missed this.

“That’s great, but I don’t have a Wakandan passport,” Sam counters.

“Oh, really?” Shuri says, and produces one from her pocket. She twirls it between her fingers, grinning. “After Bucky was forced from his home,” she continues, glaring at Nick Fury, of all people, “we decided that all our friends, who’d been at odds with the US government, need the opportunity to seek asylum in our home.”

Fury’s eye radiates hurt. “That wasn’t on me!”

Bucky’s thoughts drift off as the meeting evolves into good natured bickering. Sam’s turning the passport over and over in his fingers, eyes suspiciously shiny. As he watches, Shuri opens it to a random page and passes a bead over it. Everyone draws back as an image of T’Challa appears, speaking at first in Xhosa, then in another language which Bucky has never heard. Maybe this can work. He can hardly believe or hope, but maybe.

Over the next few days, they all meet again – though sometimes Bucky wishes it was just him, Sam, T’Challa and Shuri. It seems like the more people involved, the more they add and argue. But he stays insistent on one thing – he doesn’t want to involve anyone from SHIELD in that reality, or any form of the Avengers Initiative. He doesn’t even really want to know how the other alternates lived – maybe he doesn’t want to risk making changes, he thinks. Or maybe it’s just envy.

Maybe he even resents the apparently idyllic life they got – but that’s stupid, he knows that. Even if Steve hadn’t decided to make a life for himself in the past, and had changed things in his own reality, nothing would have changed, for them. Steve would simply have started another timeline. It’s not like he would have magically stopped being the . . . the Soldier, or that he wouldn’t have been tortured. According to Banner, and Shuri, it’s like Star Trek TNG, not Back to the Future. Whatever that means.

Bucky finds the bank vault containing the Pym particles, horribly reminiscent of another bank vault, years ago. There are even three quantum suits, ugly looking things, Bucky thinks. He has a long conversation with Sam, in which they discuss the fact that this might be a one way trip for both of them. Anything could go wrong.

So, Sam spends a few days with his mother and sister, and Bucky – well. He goes to the park, he walks around his old neighbourhood, he finds some more sites which need to be cleared. In most of them, there are signs which proclaim that the work is being done under the auspices of the Tony Stark Memorial Foundation.

After much legal wrangling, Pepper Potts has managed to sink Stark’s entire fortune into this: the rebuilding of New York. They don’t need him that much anymore. But he offers his services anyway, and once people see his arm, they recognise him. No-one really wants to get into it with him, though. In fact, they mostly ignore him, which makes him feel at home, for the first time in what feels like hundreds of years. New York never changes.

Two weeks after Steve’s funeral, Bucky’s back in the woods near Stark’s old lake house. The platform has been rebuilt, and both he and Sam are wearing the quantum suits. They’ve learned how to use the bracelets and the Pym particles, and they both have backpacks with a change of clothes, some cash, and their passports. He hopes the money’s not too different; actually, he hopes they won’t need it at all. But they’ve no idea how long the mission will take.

Sam isn’t taking the Captain America suit with him, or the shield, and no-one knows about their jaunt except for their small group. No-one needs to know – if everything goes well, they’ll be coming back five seconds after they leave.

“I better not come back looking like my own grandpa, my man!”

Bucky looks at Sam, grinning, but the joke he was gonna make dries up in his throat. Sam’s tone is light, but his eyes are worried.

“You can still change your mind, you know,” he says, putting a hand on Sam’s shoulder.

Sam raises his eyebrows, brushes off his hand. “You think you can get this done without me? Think anyone in Wakanda is gonna listen to your pasty white ass? They’ll shoot you on sight!”

Bucky grins. “Glad I have you to protect me, then!”

Sam raises his middle finger.

Banner clears his throat, noisily, raising an eyebrow, giving them a stern look. He starts the countdown.

Bucky forces himself to stay calm, relaxed. He unclenches his fingers, tries to plan the mission, rather than worry about the space-time bullshit. Wait, ‘mission’? He suppresses a wince. No, it’s not a mission; not the kind of mission he was given once, long ago. This is a rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'm going by the canon as was presented **on screen only,** in Endgame. I'm not interested in whatever fairy tale the Russos or Markus and McFeeley have been spinning in the months since the movie's release.
> 
> The difference between Star Trek: The Next Generation and Back to the Future time travel is as follows:  
> In Star Trek: TNG (and, as Bruce said in a long and boring-ass scene in Endgame, in the MCU), every decision you take, every change, results in another timeline being created.
> 
> In Back to the Future, changes in the past directly affect the present. For example, the protagonist starts disappearing when there are signs that his parents might not get together.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Bucky and Sam have a wonderful time in an alternate timeline! Did I say 'wonderful'? I meant the other thing._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Note the SUICIDE tag, please. It's not graphic, but it's in this chapter.

Bucky is on his knees on the concrete, retching helplessly. He catches a glimpse of Sam’s legs next to him, leaning against a wall. But that’s as bad as it gets, with Sam. Small consolation, he’s not being puked on.

“What the fucking fuck-“ Bucky starts, when he hears a little shriek which snaps his head back up.

There’s a teenage boy in front of them, wide-eyed, holding a bag of garbage which he was clearly getting rid of, and which he’s now clutching with a death grip.

Bucky digs his fingers into the crumbling wall, pulls himself up off his knees, and next to him, Sam tries to calm the kid down.

“It’s ok, kid. Just had a bad burger -“

But Sam’s speaking in English, and he doesn’t sound like he’s from Nairobi, which is where they are – where they told Bruce to send them. The boy retreats back into the café, shouting something in Swahili, and Bucky grabs Sam by the sleeve. Thank God they got rid of the quantum suits as soon as they landed. He hopes they really are in Nairobi.

“Come on, man – we gotta haul ass!” Bucky darts out of the alley way into the main street, pulling out his phone as he goes. He hopes it isn’t too different from anything they have here.

He’s following Shuri’s instructions: they need to find out exactly what’s different and what’s the same, especially regarding Wakanda. The easiest way to do that without arousing suspicion is going online, hopefully piggybacking on some free WiFi signal. Bucky freely admits he has no idea what most of that means. Sure, he’s used the internet, especially the time he spent almost two years in a hut, in a country where the sun set at six in the evening. He bores easily.

Sam’s also bent over his phone, doing the same thing. He slows down, and feels blindly for Bucky’s arm, knocking his fingers on the metal elbow in the process.

“Ow! Dammit, remind me not to walk on your left anymore.”

“You got something?” Bucky tries not to sound impatient, but he’s already feeling itchy, like people are staring at him.

He looks around, trying to be sneaky, but it’s hard, in broad daylight. It’s not like the city is some futuristic wonder – hell, it doesn’t even measure up to Birnin Zana – but he can tell that the clothes, those with Western styles, are slightly different to what he and Sam are wearing. Also, _Bucky_ really sticks out like a sore thumb. It was his idea to go for an African country with borders with Wakanda, which he’s starting to regret. Too late now.

“So,” Sam murmurs, “Wakanda, second poorest nation in Africa, industries are mainly agriculture and animal husbandry – that a fancy name for goat farming?”

Bucky sighs. “Yeah, pretty much. Guess they’re still hiding. Fuck, that makes it harder.” He looks at his screen again. “At least we’re in the same year – 2023.”

“The king is T’Challa, which is good – there’s some pictures, of him and his . . . sister.” Sam’s voice peters out, and Bucky stares at his screen with a frown. T’Challa looks the same, maybe a bit tired. But Shuri – she’s older. This Shuri is a grown woman.

“Huh. No five-year gap. Not sure if that’s better or worse.”

Sam ignores him, and when Bucky lifts his head, his friend is staring around him. “I don’t know if we can risk a cab, man. It’s – everything’s off, you know?”

Yeah. Bucky looks down at his screen again, and on impulse, starts to type out a search term. He gets to H-Y-D- when he stops, swearing. The internet is monitored. It’s monitored where he’s from, why shouldn’t it be monitored here?

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, just not sure what I can search for without getting – what do they call it – flagged? Wanted to look for HYDRA.”

Sam crosses his arms, which is what he does when he’s thinking. He looks around, and spots something.

“There! See that? There’s a McDonalds – don’t look at me like that, Barnes! I know you hate it, but at least there’s free WiFi, and we can be dumb tourists who don’t know better.”

Bucky nods, though he still gives Sam the side-eye. But it’s true that he won’t stand out that much – doesn’t solve the problem of his metal arm, though. He’s wearing long sleeves and gloves – the one is normal, though he’s sweating slightly. The other – who wears gloves anymore, unless it’s snowing?

Once they’re inside, he zooms to a table in the back, in a corner, where he can see the only visible exit. Sam grumbles, but goes to get some coffee.

After some thought, Bucky decides to look up Thor – that’s a pretty safe bet, right? In fact, all that comes up is a list of pages on Norse Mythology. He thinks hard, and puts in ‘Chitauri’ and ‘Thanos’ – no results found for the first, and a _“did you mean Thanatos?”_ for the second.

Sam comes up with the coffee, shoves the to go cup in his hand, hissing, “We gotta go – right now.”

Bucky doesn’t ask, just gets up and walks out. He risks a glance back at the cash station, and two cashiers wearing grey shirts and ball caps are having a hushed conversation.

“What tipped them off?” Bucky asks, speeding up the pace to catch up with Sam.

Sam’s free hand is clenched at his side and he looks for a trash can for his coffee. “The money. Everyone else used a card, and I used cash, and the goddam money – fuck!”

“Fine, so we find the embassy, right now.”

He’s learned about search terms, and he puts one in: ‘wakanda, embassy, nairobi,’ only to swear, at first, because there isn’t one. But then he finds a listing for a consulate, and an address. That’s a good idea, Bucky thinks, hiding in plain sight, looking innocent and vulnerable so no-one will ever bother them. But what if there is nothing _to_ Wakanda, in this timeline? What if Steve messed something up? Something _else,_ he amends, wincing.

Are there more people looking at them, or is it just his imagination? They’re walking fast in a busy commercial street, and he’s trying to bring up a google map to find the street where this consulate is supposed to be, and whether it’s far away from the street they’re on. Which it is. Shit.

“What?” Sam’s been sneaking glances at him.

“We’re gonna need to take a cab – this street is too far away and I can’t even figure out public transport here.”

Sam frowns. “It’s gotta be an Uber or something, but I don’t want to look online – maybe our Uber isn’t this Uber and-“ He stops, goes on. “I feel eyes on me.”

Bucky hasn’t wanted to say, hoping it was his imagination, but yeah. These are better than the tails he had in New York, but not by much. “Six o’clock, lady with the stroller, just talked into her watch. Across the street, guy in a suit, keeping pace with us since we left Mickey Ds.”

“And you’re telling me now?”

“I just thought I was being paranoid!” Bucky exclaims. “More paranoid than usual.” He wants to add more, then is interrupted by Sam, who starts cursing foully, grabbing his arm, practically dragging Bucky along.

“Motherfucking shit crap, what the fuck,” Sam hisses. “I just saw some lady’s ipad light up with your face, man. I don’t know what the text said, it’s in Swahili.”

What the hell? According to Steve, he’s been dead here for over thirty years, so what the hell?

Bucky’s scanning the street and walking, eyes moving while his head doesn’t change direction, as he was trained, all those years ago. All the cars are zooming along, none stop, except . . . Except. One car pulls over, screeches to a halt and it’s almost like he wished it into being. There’s Bast stencilled all over the car’s bodywork. Sure, there’s a South African flag in the rear windscreen, but he knows Wakandans often use that nationality when they’re undercover abroad. Oh please, he thinks, please.

 _“Molo!”_ he yells, this time dragging Sam with him. _“Molo . . . unjani?”_

The taxi driver looks back at him, raising an eyebrow – her head isn’t shaved, but he sees the raised eyebrow and the flared nostril of the Dora Milaje in her expression.

 _“Ndiphilile . . . Wena Unjani?”_ she answers, after a momentary pause.

“Can you take us to the Wakandan consulate . . . please?” Bucky continues in English, because he wants Sam to understand what’s being said.

He senses movement behind him, deliberately doesn’t turn around, but asks again, begs, even. “Please.”

Her nostrils flare, she seems to reach a decision. “Get in.”

As soon as they’re in, she peels off the kerb, tyres screeching, joining the chaotic Nairobi traffic. She catches his eye in the rearview mirror.

“I am taking you to the consulate – but that is no guarantee you will get in.”

“One step at a time, ma’am,” Sam answers, and Bucky sags back into the seat, thankful that Sam’s striking the right note.

“Are you aware that a picture of you has come up, more than once, on the terrorist alert app, in the past half hour?”

Bucky groans. He wants to answer, but Sam gets there first.

“I just don’t get it – we only arrived an hour ago!”

“Hmm.” The taxi driver thinks for a few seconds, then continues. “A couple of weeks ago, the government of Kenya floated a new security measure – facial-recognition software in cameras covering the whole of Nairobi, as a pilot project, for all of our cities. After a public outcry, the project was abandoned.”

“Yeah, guess again,” Sam says, voice heavy with scepticism. “We’re not terrorists!”

The taxi driver shrugs. “Terrorists or no, you will find nothing at the Wakandan consulate.”

“’Cos there’s nothing to get or ‘cos they’ll fuck our shit up?” Sam asks, and Bucky rolls his eyes. Dammit, Sam. This is just as diplomatic as his ‘So, you like cats?’ when he first met T’Challa. Bucky remembers Steve telling him about it in Germany, and it feels like a thousand years ago.

The taxi driver doesn’t answer, just shakes her head. She pulls into a quiet street, slows down.

“The consulate is at the end of this road.”

Bucky pays the fare, thanking her. He takes a deep breath, looks at Sam, and they both get out of the car. As soon as they take a few steps, armed men sprout out of nowhere, shouting orders, waving automatic weapons. Bucky grabs Sam and starts running.

After a pause in which it feels like the universe is drawing a breath, the bullets start flying. They’re mainly aimed at him. He deflects one, two, three with his left arm. Then he spots a shooter who’s directly aiming at Sam, and he can’t block anymore . . . he steps in front of Sam, instead.

The slugs hit him in the chest, and he regrets that he never thought to include his Kevlar in the outfit. He’s enhanced, yes, but every breath is agony.

“Fuck, Bucky, come on.”

Bucky puts his arm over Steve’s shoulder, and they stagger out of the silo – no, no, no. It’s _Sam’s_ shoulder, and they’re dragging each other to the small, unobtrusive door with the “Consulate of Wakanda” plaque next to it. There’s an electronic lock and an intercom grille next to a button, but they don’t have time for long conversations, Bucky thinks; they have to get in.

The armed men are yelling something, but Bucky ignores them, using his left arm to punch through the lock mechanism – the door itself is reinforced, but the lock is just a lock. They stagger into the foyer, which is run down, all old marble and scratched furniture . . . purposely, Bucky hopes. Then, they’re confronted by more soldiers, all men, all holding western style weapons, and Bucky’s starting to lose hope. Also, his sight is starting to go fuzzy.

Sam takes over. “We need asylum! We’re Wakandan citizens! We have passports in the bag!”

Sam lets go of Bucky to raise his hands, as they’re yelling at him to do, and Bucky collapses slowly to the ground.

Mixed in with all the yelling, Bucky hears the clicking of heels on the marble floor. He raises his head a little and sees Okoye’s stern face looking down at him, just as the edges of his vision turn black. He mumbles something and the world around him recedes, though not before he hears:

_Did that white man just say ‘Praise Bast’?_

_I told you we’re Wakandan citizens!_

Once again, Bucky wakes up from a drug fuelled sleep, conscious of a receding pain in his gut, as well as his ribs, hip, and right shoulder. Damn, they really got him this time. He opens his eyes to see Sam, sitting at his bedside, head in hands.

“Don’t tell me, I’m dying,” he quips, and is immensely satisfied by the glare aimed his way as soon as Sam lifts his head.

“You gotta stop doing this shit, man!”

“I don’t enjoy getting shot!”

“Don’t you?”

Bucky’s eyes wander, as he gets back into their familiar rhythm, and his surroundings are as familiar – one of the white rooms he remembers from Wakanda, with fancy equipment lying around, and white coated doctors watching him with a certain wariness.

“Hey, Sam – I didn’t . . . you know . . . do the-“

He wants to wave his left hand around to indicate general Winter Soldier mayhem, but realises that waving around a vibranium limb is probably not a good idea right now. Not that they wouldn’t have seen it, anyway, when they cut off his clothes – oh, _shit._

He groans, and Sam looks concerned.

“What’s wrong? No, of course you didn’t hulk out, you were shot to hell and back. Does it hurt anywhere?”

“Nah . . . did they cut my jeans off?”

Sam musters a magnificent eye-roll. “Yeah, Buck. Sorry your favourite jeans were sacrificed to the goal of getting five bullets out of you.”

Bucky manages to raise a middle finger, even though he feels beat to hell. Five bullets, huh? Sam narrows his eyes, but Bucky feels there’s a message in his glare. Yeah, yeah. He doesn’t want thanks. He knows that he can recover from being shot much faster than Sam. They really should have stocked up on Kevlar before leaving, but who knew that people would be out to get them, here?

Scratch that, out to get _him._ It was his face on all the fancy terrorist seeking apps, not Sam’s. He sincerely doesn’t know what to do. Just as he’s wondering what the game plan is now,Okoye walks in. He better call her ‘General Okoye’, though. She doesn’t know him.

“Perhaps now that you are awake, you’d care to explain yourselves,” she says, looking as magnificent and, frankly, terrifying as ever.

Bucky opens his mouth, but Sam has other ideas. “Maybe you can introduce yourself first, ma’am. I’d like to know who I’m talking to.”

“Even though you broke into our embassy, causing a diplomatic incident? We are within our rights to call this an act of war, technically speaking.”

Bucky swallows. “Technically speaking, we’re Wakandan citizens,” he says, keeping his tone as mild as he can. “There’s the chip in the passports – it’ll explain everything.”

Okoye crosses her arms, regarding him steadily. “The chip. Yes. My technicians tell me that although the passports are Wakandan, they are unfamiliar to us. Also, the encryption on the data cannot be cracked by our . . . IT techs. The head of our science division would be able to crack it, but she is, at present, unavailable.”

Bucky nods, grins. “Because the head of your science and technology is Princess Shuri, and you’ll be damned if you let her come to a place with suspected terrorists in it.”

“Look, we know who you really are, that you’re not some cultural attaché – we know you’re the head of the Dora Milaje, and that you’re the General of Wakanda’s armies.” Sam interrupts, and that laser-like glare is focused on him now. “We know about Wakanda, we know about the advanced technology, all you have to do is get the passports to Wakanda, and Princess Shuri will prove we’re telling the truth.”

Bucky wonders if that’s enough. “I’m sure it didn’t escape your notice that my arm is made of vibranium,” he adds.

Okoye inclines her head. “When we showed Princess Shuri the images, she had to be physically restrained not to hop on an aircraft and get here.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t just take it off and send it to her,” Bucky mumbles, and the swift intake of breath he hears is the first actual reaction which reminds him of his friends.

“We are not barbarians!” Okoye snaps.

“Sorry. Guess I’m a bit shaken by the bullets you took out of me,” Bucky says, trying to sound apologetic.

“Yeah, about that,” Sam says, apparently trying to join the conversation. “Facial recognition? All over? The hell?”

Okoye snorts. “You tell us – you’re the Americans. Oh, I’m sorry – the _Wakandan_ Americans.”

Bucky feels a chill going down his spine. “You mean . . . this is already being used in the US?”

“The US, Europe – the nations of Africa are among the last hold-outs. Though not anymore, I gather.”

The door opens, and Bucky almost groans in relief. _This_ T’Challa looks almost the same as his own. He’s followed by a Shuri who’s a grown woman, but who has the same glint of excitement in her eyes as the Shuri he knows. The group is rounded out by three Dora Milaje, who fix Bucky and Sam with intense glares.

Okoye is only focused on one person. “My king, this is not what we planned!”

“My sister insisted,” T’Challa says, “and I was not going to let her come here alone.”

“Did you think I was going to miss a chance to look at that arm?” Shuri interrupts, as she advances on Bucky with a look of predatory intent.

“First we need to know who these men are, Shuri.” T’Challa says, his tone mild, concealing a steel core. “These passports . . . “ He’s holding them in his hand. Bucky didn’t notice them before. “James Ingcuka; Samuel Ukhozi . . . interesting names.”

Sam Eagle, huh. Ok, Bucky thinks. Shuri always had a weird sense of humor. He smirks at Sam, who gives him the stinkeye.

“So, here’s the deal,” Sam says. “I’m not sure if you’ve ever come across the quantum theory of time travel. The idea that time branches out in different-“

“Dimensions, yes, as soon as a different direction is taken,” Shuri says, finishing Sam’s sentence. “Bast save us! Are you saying that this has been proved? That you are the proof?”

Bucky exchanges a look with Sam. “Actually, swee- um – Princess: you’re the proof. This whole reality is a branching timeline.”

“Huh.” Sam raises his eyebrows. “So, you were listening when Banner gave his long-ass, boring as hell, PowerPoint presentation?”

“Yeah. I only pretended to fall asleep.”

Bucky notices the Wakandans staring at them. “I have it on good authority that it’s like Star Trek and not Back to the Future; whatever that means.”

“I see,” Shuri says, looking like she’s dying to get to her lab and start scribbling in the air, on her holograms. Not that he understands how they work – just that he’s seen it happen. “So, an event must have happened so far back in the past that it changed many things, enough to branch off into a timeline.”

Sam nods; Bucky’s sure he’s glad that she’s there and understands this stuff. “I mean, the stuff in our passports should explain it pretty thoroughly, but basically, someone went back to the 1940s or 50s, and changed a lot.”

T’Challa is about to speak, but just then, one of the Dora comes up with a mobile phone in her hand, murmuring in the king’s ear. Bucky’s surprised when T’Challa doesn’t go away for this conversation.

“Agent Ross? How may I help you?”

As soon as Bucky hears the name, he bites back a groan, and Sam rubs his forehead. What is it with this guy? Why is he out to get them in every reality? T’Challa listens intently for a few seconds, his brows drawing together.

“I think not. There are no terrorists here, only Wakandans. If there has been a diplomatic incident, it involves attempted murder of our citizens, in broad daylight.”

Wow. Bucky can hardly believe what he’s hearing. He had hoped, but didn’t dare believe . . . His eyes sting with unshed tears, and he has to blink rapidly to stop them.

“Yes, I have seen the image circulating online, and I think you have reached a new level of paranoia, Mr Ross; chasing after a man who died in 1945. Unless there’s something you’re not sharing with us. Ah, you’re surprised that we looked him up? You underestimate my sister’s dedication to updating her social media presence.”

Shuri’s magnificent eyeroll and her muttered ‘yes, blame it all on me, brother,’ makes him forget that she’s not eighteen in this reality.

“Now I believe you are making things up, Mr Ross. The Winter Soldier? An old Soviet ghost story?” He waves at Shuri as he speaks, and she immediately brings up a hologram on her kimoyo beads, streams of light, words and images at her fingertips, manipulating them like magic.

“Yes, well, you haven’t told me much at all, Mr Ross. And I can’t help you. As you know, Wakanda is forbidden to non-citizens – nothing about yesterday’s incident has given me the idea that this needs to change. Goodbye.”

Ross is still squawking when T’Challa cuts the connection, a half-smile on his face, and Shuri raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t smirk, brother. It is unbecoming in a king.”

“I don’t smirk!”

Okoye is behind him, trying to hold back a smile when she meets Shuri’s eyes and has to look away. God, he missed them. He missed them so much.

“So, does anyone want to know about this Winter Soldier business?” Shuri starts, but T’Challa gives her a warning look, before turning to Bucky.

“Why not let Mr Ingcuka tell us, in his own words?”

Bucky sighs. “My birth name is James Buchanan Barnes. I was born in 1917.” Okoye’s eyebrows rise exponentially, while Shuri just looks like she’d rather be telling the story.

“In 1943 I was experimented on by HYDRA, and then again in 1945 – and here I am today,” he says, raising his arms. “They trained me-“

“Tortured! Mind-controlled!” Sam interrupts, arms folded.

“Yeah, yeah. Made me into an assassin. In my reality, I was controlled by them till 2014, where I was broken out, and HYDRA fell. In this one-“

“You – he was arrested in 1991; taken into custody before he could assassinate the Starks; he shot himself.” Shuri bites her lip when she says the last, shocked in spite of herself.

Sam meets Bucky’s eyes. “You’re saying there was a file dump, just like we had in 2014?”

“No, not exactly,” Shuri says, trying to look innocent and failing.

“Princess, did you hack the SHIELD files again?” Okoye asks, seemingly trying to sound severe even though she mostly looked amused.

T’Challa interrupts before Shuri can answer. “Shuri! Last time, I had to make a formal apology to the cultural attaché!”

“Well, this time I managed to hide my tracks better,” Shuri retorts, not in the least apologetic. “It’s truly terrible what was done to this man. And SHIELD did not help.” She angles her wrist towards her brother, almost enticing. “There’s some video – of the SHIELD interrogation, I mean.”

T’Challa looks at Bucky, almost asking for permission, and Bucky shrugs. “That never happened to me. I’m ok with watching it.”

The hologram grows into a screen, and Bucky regrets doing this as soon as the image resolves. It’s sharper than anything from the 90s has a right to be, and in color. He sees himself, slumped behind a table, right wrist shackled to a steel table, left wrist . . . the left wrist isn’t there.

“They took your arm . . . “ He barely recognises Sam’s voice, distorted as it is with an overlay of horror.

He looks at his own double, who’s leaning forward, long hair falling in his face. At first, he thinks there’s no sound, then he hears a question, then another, and another. It’s just the other Bucky who isn’t speaking, who isn’t even looking up. Well, at least they’re not working him over, Bucky thinks at first, then he sneers: like they’d do that in front of a camera.

“Just say your damn name!” One of the interrogators seems to have run out of patience.

That gets a reaction from the slumped figure. He looks up and Bucky finally sees his own face, lank hair not obscuring it any longer.

“What name?” the other Bucky sneers. Then he looks to the side, to his right, and Bucky notices an armed guard standing there, impassive. There’s a gun on his hip, but Bucky’s sure it isn’t loaded. No one would be so stupid as to bring in a loaded weapon to an interrogation. The other Bucky is saying something, too faint to be picked up by the microphone, but the guard hears him, must hear him, because his fingers twitch.

“Interview suspended,” the voice says, and the screen goes black.

“There’s a few more,” Shuri says. “Not many, though. In the description, I can see mention of a breakthrough on one of the time stamped videos – let me bring it up.”

It’s the same visual, but this time, other Bucky is looking up. Still hostile, though.

“Where is this place? Who are you people?” his counterpart asks.

“We’re asking the questions, son,” comes the reply, and the Bucky on screen rolls his eyes.

“Is that _Fury_?” Sam asks, and Bucky finally places the voice.

But the video is still playing.

“Look, I told you my name – I told you what I remember. It ain’t much, I know, but – “ Alternate Bucky glances to his left, and is transfixed by the absence of an arm. He licks his lips, swallows. “You said you’d tell me about Steve. Where is he?”

Oh no. Oh, shit. Bucky wants to use his own hand to cover his face, but can’t stop watching.

“I’m sorry, Barnes – but Steve Rogers died back in ’45. He put a plane full of bombs down in the Arctic. He saved everyone.”

It’s a weird thing, to see his own face on the screen, changing expression, while knowing it isn’t him. Alternate Bucky’s face freezes, becomes a mask. “They told me he was dead – I thought they were lyin’.”

“You asked what this place is – well, it’s the headquarters of SHIELD, which in your time was known as the SSR.”

“In my time?” alternate Bucky asks, and Bucky winces. Fury must have been pretty green in 91. No way would he have let that slip, otherwise.

“Look, we’re asking the questions here, Barnes,” Fury blusters.

“Then ask,” alternate Bucky answers, and Bucky’s seen enough. He knows how this is going to end. He saw it as soon as the Bucky onscreen heard that Steve was dead.

He waves his hand for Shuri to stop.

“So, did they get it on camera, when he does it?”

Shuri bites her lip, brings up another screen, with a report. “They call it ‘the incident’ as you can see. They questioned the guard whose gun was loaded; he said that Barnes threatened him, threatened his family.”

“Ah,” T’Challa says, nodding. “A fear tactic. To make the guard disregard his orders.”

Bucky shrugs. It’s what he would have done – scratch that, it’s what he did, somewhere else. “Can we watch the last video? Unless it’s –“ he wanted to say ‘bloody’, or ‘disturbing’, but Shuri’s already starting playback. Turns out, she’s curious in this time frame too.

She speeds ahead to the end of the video, when it happens. The guard bends over to unlock the arm cuff, Bucky headbutts him and draws his gun in one swift movement. Someone lunges over the table and upends the camera, so they don’t see what happens next, but they hear the gunshot. Just one. It’s enough. Bucky knows how he would have done it – not to the temple. The skull is hard; there’s a chance the bullet can ricochet off, or just blow off your jaw. No, the best way is the barrel under the chin, straight up to the brain, and goodnight, sweetheart.

He looks up, and everyone is looking back at him. He shrugs again. “I knew he did it.”

There’s a few seconds of silence. Sam fills them, trying to change the subject, lighten the atmosphere. “So, in our timeline, y’all had a civil war in 2016, when your cousin came back to try and take over Wakanda – did that happen here, too?”

T’Challa narrows his eyes. “My cousin?”

Sam gets up. “Let’s talk, your highness. I think you should know what possibilities there could be for a modern Wakanda.”

“And then, Mr Ukhozi, perhaps you can tell me why you really came here.”

“It’s just Sam, seriously.”

They leave with T’Challa insisting he’s no-one’s highness, and Bucky realises that this is all for his benefit, that they expect him to want privacy. He does and he doesn’t – he wants to explain why the other Bucky had eaten the bullet, that even if he still had sisters living (he knew when his parents had died, and it had been before ’91), he couldn’t go back to them like this: broken, a killer. And how likely was it that alternate SHIELD, in ’91, would ever have let him go?

Shuri’s still there though, giving his arm hungry looks. He grins, unable to control his joy at being with his friend, even though it’s an alternate version.

“If I can get some real clothes on, you can mess around with my arm as much as you like!”

“Oh, but Sergeant Barnes – you were shot just yesterday!”

Bucky shrugs. “I get over that stuff pretty quickly. And it’s Bucky, please. “

“Bucky,” she says, wrinkling her nose.

“I ain’t been a sergeant for a very long time, and James just makes me feel like I’m in trouble.”

“Bucky it is, then,” she says, grinning.

Shuri mutters something fast into her kimoyo beads, and a nurse comes in to start unhooking and unplugging all the pipes and wires in his body. He has to stop getting shot, he thinks, and wants to roll his eyes at himself. Now he’s even starting to think like Sam.

The days pass fairly quickly in the Wakandan embassy.

Bucky understands that it’s not a good idea for them to try and get to Wakanda, especially with the US government making increasingly hostile demands to have them handed over. At first, he, and Sam, though Sam refuses to admit it, are worried about this dimension’s Sam getting into trouble because of them. But then they find out that Sam hasn’t even been identified, and Bucky can rest easy. He’s pretty sure that it was his connection to HYDRA which made him instantly identifiable, even thirty years after his ‘death’.

Once T’Challa and Shuri listen to all that their counterparts have to say, which they do in private, they’re immediately dedicated to the idea of rescuing Steve Rogers from the Arctic. Even though T’Challa has no connection to Steve, to Cap, he still insists.

“It is inconceivable that such a man should be abandoned like that, after having sacrificed so much for his country, for humanity.”

Shuri’s holding back a smirk with some difficulty. Bucky knows she just wants to test the changes she’s made to Doppler radar, and how she’s enhanced it using vibranium. She sulks a little when T’Challa won’t let her go on the search and rescue missions, but then is happy enough to follow using the kimoyo beads.

T’Challa invites them both to walk in the garden with him, and Bucky’s sure he’s doing it only to distract them, take their mind off the search. Even though they’d supplied the original co-ordinates of where Steve had been found the last time, he wasn’t there this time. Also, Bucky admits, T’Challa probably wants to pump them for information. Thanks to Sam, he already knows that he has a cousin – or had, rather. Erik Killmonger, who was also given the name of N’Jadaka, was killed in one of the U.S.’s many wars – or ‘conflicts’, as the statesmen liked to call them. Still, Sam had warned T’Challa – being reported as KIA didn’t mean much.

“Thank you, again, for the warning,” T’Challa says. “I’m afraid I must impose on you further.”

Bucky grins. “No, don’t tell me – after pulling five slugs outta me and rescuing our best friend from an icy grave, you need a favour?”

T’Challa sighs. “I think you are spending too much time with my sister, Ingcuka. It is my pleasure to help. But this is a different issue. For some time now we have seen hints of a hidden agenda in the world’s security organisations. Now, with their reaction to your emergence, we have our suspicions of something worse, hidden in plain sight.”

Bucky’s chewing his lip, not sure what T’Challa is getting at. But Sam knows.

“You think HYDRA is still here – is still everywhere?” Sam sounds like this is his worst nightmare; it’s definitely Bucky’s.

“I think that within an hour of you landing in our timeline they had pictures of you to circulate online; I think they knew who you really are instantly; the commandos shot to kill, not to wound or incapacitate. An unenhanced human would have died.”

Bucky looks him straight in the eyes. “Do you think you – the Black Panther – should be doing something about this?”

T’Challa’s smile is the widest he’s ever seen on the man. So, he knew that they knew, and it didn’t bother him. “Well, the Black Panther is traditionally the protector of Wakanda, and Wakanda is not being threatened.”

“Yet,” Bucky says, the word dragged out of him.

“But,” T’Challa continues, “"there are other issues. Should we open our borders, reveal ourselves to the world? Should we welcome our brothers and sisters who have been scattered in the diaspora, tell them of our achievements, offer a refuge? And what about these . . . infinity gems?”

Bucky can actually feel Sam’s glare on his skin. “Hey, don’t look at me, I didn’t tell them.”

“Shuri?” Sam asks.

“Shuri,” T’Challa replies. “You honestly did not think that my sister, in any timeline or reality, would ignore the presence of singularities rendered tangible.”

“That’s really too much to ask,” Sam says, sighing a little. “But why? Apparently, they’re not a thing in this timeline.”

T’Challa taps his fingers on the edge of a stone fountain which they stopped in front of. “Your Shuri said the phrase ‘just in case’ a great deal. I might be speaking out of turn, but it seems to me that people in your dimension have been . . . marked . . . by their experience.”

If it hurt as much as it did with him and Sam, then yes, Bucky thinks. And it probably did.

“Did she mention the Time stone? ‘Cos I’d put all my money on the Time stone,” Sam adds. “Forget about waiting five years, or doing this quantum shit which fucks with timelines – if there’s even a hint of Thanos here, go to Bleeker Street, New York, find Stephen Strange, and tell him to get his ass in gear.”

“Do you think there’s a chance of that happening?” T’Challa asks, almost casually, but his eyes are focused, sharp.

Good question, Bucky thinks but daren’t say. “I know that Steve – our Steve – dealt with some of the stones, but I don’t know that he went into space and found the ones there. And if Thanos is that obsessed with doing his ‘kill half the universe’ crap, then he’s gonna come to the one place where some of the stones were last seen.”

“Earth,” T’Challa says.

“Hey, did Bruce tell you that Rhodey – Colonel Rhodes – suggested going back in time and killing Thanos as a baby?” Sam asks, brightening. “Leave it to the brother to come up with the good ideas and get no respect.”

“Seriously, man? Why you gotta say that shit?” Bucky grouses.

T’Challa is shaking his head. “It is a good idea. Finding the Time stone, I mean, not infanticide. But will this Stephen Strange listen to some king from an impoverished African country?”

“Well, he’s kind of a jerk, so probably not,” Bucky says, remembering waking up with a mouth full of soil and leaves, learning he’s been dead for five years, and being told to stop acting like an imbecile and pull himself together. “But he might listen to the Black Panther.”

What T’Challa says to this they will never know, because his kimoyo beads start chiming, and when Okoye’s head materialises above his wrist, Bucky knows what she’s going to say, before she even opens her mouth.

“We have found him.”

Later, Bucky will realise that he can’t even remember the trip to Wakanda.

They take off from the consulate using a helicopter pad on the roof, even though they’re in a Wakandan aircraft only camouflaged as a helicopter. But the trip itself is a blank. Later, Sam will tell him they had a sustained, if terse conversation. But this is one of the few times when his training actually helps him, that he can put his thoughts into separate boxes in his head, because all he can think about is Steve.

The first feeling is joy – a joy so intense he wants to weep. The second feeling is terror. And it’s the terror that lasts. Because this Steve just left 1945. What does he know or care how much time has passed? He’s still young at heart, while Bucky sometimes feels like the old man he should be. His body is whole and perfect, while Bucky has been reassembled piecemeal, like a kid gluing parts of a toy back together.

“Hey, Bucky! Buck? Come on, man, snap out of it.”

Bucky shakes himself out of a waking nightmare, in which Steve glares at him and says that he isn’t Bucky, and looks up at Sam, who’s this close to snapping his fingers in Bucky’s face. He feels his eyes narrow, and Sam backs away.

“You gonna go all Winter Soldier on my ass?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Excuse me for being nervous about seeing someone who’s expecting the old me, and is gonna have to be happy with . . . this,” he concludes, gesturing down at himself.

“Yeah, right.” Sam shakes his head. “I was there when he saw you again, back in D.C. You know what bothered him? That you didn’t know him, that you didn’t know _yourself._ All he wanted was to save you.”

Bucky’s eyes are on fire. He swallows a sob and bites the inside of his cheek savagely. He only manages a nod, knowing that even trying to speak is gonna make him cry like a baby.

Sam looks away, gives him some room. “Come on, we’re here. Anyway, it’s not like they’re gonna defrost him today. Shuri said it might take them a week.”

When did Shuri say that, Bucky wonders. Probably when he was out of it, a voice in his head points out. They walk towards the palace, and Bucky notes how similar it is to the one he remembers. This time he’ll have a room inside, as he won’t be running away to a farm in the middle of nowhere.

The week passes both slow and fast. Bucky finds himself pacing up and down in his room, and going for long walks through the palace and the woodland surrounding it. He notices the rumbling among the people when they see him, and he’s sure the Jabari have something to say about his presence. Sam manages to blend in better, though that changes as soon as he opens his mouth. But T’Challa doesn’t say anything, doesn’t tell him to keep out of sight, which is a good thing, because getting stir-crazy on top of worrying himself sick would not help.

The day comes when Steve is close to waking up. It will happen in the next few hours, Shuri says. Sam tries to cheer him up with a joke about the giant hairdryer finally doing its job, but Bucky’s too tense to crack a smile.

Shuri’s asked for his advice on what’s best for Steve to see as soon as he opens his eyes, and Bucky has thought about it carefully. Steve told him about the fake hospital they let him wake up in, and the entire baseball game disaster. Bucky decides on a standard bedroom with basic furniture and, most important, huge windows onto the Wakandan fields surrounding the palace. He wants Steve’s room to be filled with warm buttery light, not some false memory of home. Maybe his request is colored by his memories of Wakanda, but he still yearns after it, sometimes.

When Bucky enters the room, he can’t look at the sleeping figure, at first. He can’t. Then he dares a glimpse, feeling the air leave his lungs. This is Steve, and he just – oh, God. They’ve put Steve in the same kind of clothes they gave him when they treated him – white pants and t-shirt, though Steve’s t-shirt has sleeves. He’s transfixed for a few seconds by Steve’s hands lying at his side. He remembers the last time he saw Steve sketching, back in ’45, sitting around a campfire, after a mission. He still doesn’t know who or what Steve was drawing – he thought it was Carter, at the time. It had to be Carter.

Bucky’s so caught up in his memories that he misses when Steve’s steady half-snore goes silent, but he catches the indrawn breath. When he looks at Steve’s face, there he is – those same blue eyes that had caught him all those years ago, filled with confusion and shock, as they take him in now, clean-shaven, hair short, but unmistakably not that kid he was, back in ’45.

“Bucky?” It’s almost déjà vu to that day in D.C. Steve’s expression is the same, like he can’t believe his eyes, shock transforming into a terrible hope.

There’s no smoke, though. No sirens, no sounds of gunfire. Just the Wakandan birds calling to each other, and, in the distance, he can even make out the huffing cough of the black panther. So, it isn’t at all like that day. It’s not ending the same way, either.

“Yeah, pal. It’s me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick references:
> 
> So, they land in Nairobi, Kenya, because our Shuri can't be sure that Wakanda's borders are open in the alternate timeline. Choosing another African country, one which is close, seems like a good idea.
> 
> Bast is the panther goddess of Wakanda, though the Jabari worship Hanuman. 
> 
> The dialogue between Bucky and the taxi driver is in isiXhosa; loosely translated Bucky yells 'Hello, how are you?" and the taxi driver answers "I am fine, and you?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve Rogers wakes up after being frozen, Take 2.  
> Only this time, there's Bucky to help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kudos and comments!

Steve vaults off the bed, and for a second or two, Bucky thinks he’s gonna get decked. But after another moment of disbelief, wide-eyed and tense, Steve wraps his arms around Bucky, hugging him so tight that he thinks he hears his ribs creak.

“Bucky! How . . . ? I saw you fall!” Steve’s voice is mesmerising.

In fact, it’s been so long since Bucky heard it, he lets himself sag in Steve’s arms, lets himself forget that he’s not the same.

Steve pulls back, slightly, brow furrowed, hands on Bucky’s shoulders. The minute Steve’s fingers curl around his left bicep, Bucky realises what’s wrong, and curses himself for a fool. He forgot.

Bucky’s eyes meet Steve’s as they fill with suspicion again. Steve jumps back and now Bucky’s terrified – he knows what Steve did in New York, the first time.

“Wait,” Bucky says, frantic, holding both hands out, hoping the gesture’s enough, even though one of the hands isn’t flesh.

Steve waits. Still, his eyes dart wildly around, taking everything in, probably looking for exit routes. Bucky needs to prove himself, he gets that. He still remembers what he told Steve in Berlin, but what did that mean, really? Anyone who’d researched Steve Rogers would know his mom’s name. Newspapers in his shoes? What poor boy, during the Depression, didn’t have newspapers in his shoes?

Of course, there’s . . . another thing. The _worst_ thing. It’s something he hasn’t even told Sam. It didn’t even come up in his interrogations, either time. But by the time Zola came along with his tools, Bucky’d already pushed it so far back that even he’d almost forgotten. It was only after waking up, after the Triskelion, that it came back to him.

Bucky licks his lips, and he sees Steve’s eyes drop to his mouth and narrow.

“Back in ’39 – after winning the championship at the Y for the third time – we got drunk . . . “

He wants to ask if Steve remembers, but stops himself just in time. “On the way home, I pulled you in that alley – and I kissed you.” Bucky can’t help the smile that curves his lips, at the memory, and at the color he sees rising in Steve’s cheeks. So, he does remember.

“And then you punched me in the face and told me you weren’t no queer,” Bucky continues. “The next day . . . it was like it never happened.”

Steve looks down. “I was scared, Buck!” That familiar glare is back – it feels like home. “I was scared for us both – even if you were drunk and didn’t mean it, wouldn’t have mattered if they came for you and beat you to death-“

The words spill out of Bucky’s mouth before he can reel them back in. “Who says I didn’t mean it?”

Steve opens his mouth and closes it; then goes back to glaring at him. This _was_ his Steve – why did he ever think it wouldn’t be?

“Are you stalling me or somethin’? What’s any of this got to do with this place,” he looks around, like he can’t believe his eyes, “and you – your arm? Is it your whole arm, Buck?”

Steve reaches out, like he can’t help himself, then snatches his hand back. Just then, a voice crackles in Bucky’s ear.

_If you need me to butt in, just snap your fingers, dude._

Bucky doesn’t, because things aren’t going that bad. Not like Steve’s kicked him through the door yet. Hey, plenty of time left for that.

“Ok. Ok. I’m gonna need you to listen without interrupting, for once.”

Steve takes a breath, then visibly stops. Bucky hopes his own smile is as smug as he intends for it to be.

“When you went down in the Valkyrie, you didn’t die. At least, not in a permanent way. The ice preserved you – for years – and no-one found you. Until now.”

Bucky can practically hear the wheels turning in Steve’s head – he sees him looking at the room, the furnishings, the fancy light sources – and Bucky thinks he knows what Steve’s gonna ask next. Turns out he’s wrong.

“Why are we in Africa?”

Bucky can’t help it; he grins. “It’s a country called Wakanda – they have the only source of –“

“Vibranium, yeah. That’s what my shield is made of . . . Howard told me the ruler of that country – King Azzuri – made a gift of some vibranium to the U.S. government.”

Steve walks to the window – the sun is setting slowly, and it looks infinitely beautiful, like something out of a dream. As the light leaves the room, soft recessed lighting comes on, and Steve’s eyes widen in wonder.

“How long, Buck?”

Bucky bites his lower lip. “About 78 years.”

Steve takes it better than Bucky expects. He nods twice, but when he takes another step there’s a small faltering movement, what would have been a stagger, in a lesser man. Bucky grabs his arm, careful to use his right.

“Steve, I’m sorry – I really am.”

Steve knuckles away a small tear and looks straight at him.

“How are you here, Buck?” Then his lips tighten. “It was Zola, wasn’t it? He was tryin’ to remake the serum, and – why didn’t you tell me, Bucky?”

“It wasn’t just Zola in ’43, though that was the beginning of everything, it was-“

But Steve has just stopped listening – the look of horror on his face says as much.

“The train . . . that was a trap! For you! And I delivered you straight into their hands!” Steve’s voice is shaking. “Whoever replaced Zola – they kept you?”

“Uhh.” Bucky doesn’t know if this is the right time to explain the _realpolitik_ of post-war politics, or Operation Paperclip.

He’s still thinking about it when two big hands grab his shoulders, not even flinching at the metal on his left. Steve’s face is inches away from his.

“Bucky. Come on. Tell me.”

“No-one replaced Zola.” Bucky looks down, wishing he didn’t have to continue, wishing he couldn’t remember the horror he felt when he opened his eyes and saw that face that he thought he’d never see again, looming over him. “After the war, the U.S. government brought over thousands of German scientists to work for them. Zola was one of these scientists, brought in specifically to work for the S.S.R., which became an organization called SHIELD.”

“Wait, wait. SHIELD? Was it run by Colonel Phillips?” Steve looks like he took a knock to the head.

Bucky can’t meet his eyes. “Not exactly. It was – uh – Agent Carter? Director Carter.”

“Peggy? Peggy was a part of this? She was working with Zola?” Steve looks like his world is collapsing around him, and he hasn’t even heard the worst, Bucky thinks.

“No, that was Howard Stark,” Bucky says absently, wondering how he’s going to bring up HYDRA’s continued existence. He realises his mistake when Steve’s face goes grey.

Oh, shit. Bucky should have written it down. Turns out, winging it? Not a good plan. “They didn’t know! Zola pretended to defect, but really he and some others were keeping HYDRA going, hiding it in SHIELD . . . “

Steve is shaking his head, looking like he doesn’t want to hear any more.

“Carter – Peggy – SHIELD was all about honouring your memory, Steve. It was all about fighting against terrorism, both at home and abroad.”

Bucky is now going by what he knows about his own timeline. He can’t face telling Steve what happened in _this_ one. Not yet.

Steve surprises him again, pulling him into an even closer hug than before. “God, Bucky. What did they do to you? I should have looked for your body, I . . .”

Bucky’s eyes are on fire. He sniffs a few times, then pulls back. “It’s a long story, Steve. I wasn’t awake for all of it – funny, I was on ice too. My arm – again, long story. This isn’t the first one – it isn’t the one HYDRA put on me.”

Steve looks mulish, opens his mouth.

“Shit, Steve, do you really want to hear about HYDRA working me over? Come on, buddy.” Bucky never wants to talk about this with Steve, ever, but he knows his friend.

In fact, Steve’s glare promises that this is just a temporary reprieve. Still, Bucky will take what he can.

Steve hesitates, then ploughs on. “Can I see it?”

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “Still can’t believe I ain’t a robot?”

“You’re the one who reads all that crap, Bucky. Dragging me off to Howard’s stupid flying car show – betcha there ain’t nothing like that here either, even after all this time.”

Bucky grins. “No, that’s true.”

He’s actually been expecting this. Not for nothing was Steve’s nickname ‘doubting Thomas’. Bucky’s got a tank top on under his henley, and he’s not sure it will cover the scarring. But there’s nothing he can do about that now. He takes a layer off, and Steve’s eyes bulge out of his head. He slides a few fingers over his forearm, and Bucky can’t help preening a little, flexing his fingers and then making a fist.

Steve’s lips curl in a half-smile. “It feels almost like-“

“Your shield? Yeah. This one’s made of vibranium.” He senses Steve expecting more. “Look, I’ll tell you everything – but later.”

He taps his earpiece twice, turning back to Steve. “I’d like you to meet some friends of mine – I hope they’ll become your friends too.”

Just then, the door opens, and T’Challa, Shuri, and Sam come in, trying to act like they haven’t been listening in all the while. Bucky makes the introductions, feeling weird. When he comes to Sam, he adds that Sam is Captain America now. Sam rolls his eyes.

“Dude!” Bucky’s watching Steve out of the corner of his eye, so he sees when Steve mouths _’dude’?_ Sam doesn’t. “Which part of ‘break it to him gently’ did you not get, my man?”

Steve grins. “If you mean the part about not being Captain America anymore, that was clear to me after Bucky told me how long it’s been. Pleased to meet you all.”

It isn’t that late, so Shuri suggests they can have a meal together, to get to know each other. Steve looks happy.

“I don’t know why, but I’m really hungry.”

“Well, I know why,” Sam says, grinning.

The conversation goes on without him. Bucky follows them to T’Challa’s private dining room – people have been obviously waiting on dinner, for them. But his steps get slower and slower, until he stops, leaning against the wall, head hanging down. What is he going to do? Any minute now, Steve’s gonna ask him about the Howlies, sure, but also about Peggy, and how the SSR became SHIELD, and what is he going to tell him?

He hears someone clear their throat, discreetly, and looks up. Shuri is looking back at him, the expression on her face so familiar, even though the face itself is older. In a way, this Shuri has more patience with him than ‘his’ version, which is something he will never share.

“I’m sorry,“ he says, straightening.

She waves him off. “I would tell you to take your time, but you know he will soon ask for you. My brother can only stall for so long. It is not one of his strengths!”

Bucky can’t resist a grin. So, Shuri gives her brother a hard time in any universe. “I just . . . don’t want to lie to him. You know?”

“I understand. But he’s only been awake for an hour. He doesn’t need to hear everything immediately. He will need time to absorb it all.”

Bucky nods, already distracted by his fears. In a way, he only has one: what if Steve decides to stay here?

Over the next few days, it seems to Bucky that Shuri has spread the word, and organised a little conspiracy to keep him and Steve apart. Bucky’s grateful. He loves Steve, he really does, but he needs time to plan his final reveal. And this Steve – God, his presence is intoxicating.

When he thinks about it, he almost feels like he’s betraying _his_ Steve. Still, these are the facts: after D.C., he never spent any real time with Steve at all.

Once he was settled in Wakanda, they talked, occasionally, using the internet, but it wasn’t the same. And now, it’s like it was in ’43 again. It’s too much. He’s tempted to blurt out the whole thing. At least the Howlies’ lives were the same in both realities, so Bucky could easily give Steve those files. And in the case of Carter and Howard Stark, they tell Steve that, because of SHIELD, their files are still classified. But he’s not sure that’s going to work for long.

In fact, about a week after Steve wakes up, he bursts into Shuri’s lab, where Bucky’s suffering patiently as she examines his arm for the fifteenth time . . . or what feels like the fifteenth time. Bucky understands that Shuri wants to start a Wakandan outreach for working prosthetics, but there’s a limit to his patience – or is there? He’s sitting still, after all.

Steve’s eyes widen and he stops in his tracks. Too late, Bucky remembers that he isn’t wearing a shirt, as Shuri wanted to measure his muscular reactions too. For the first time, Steve can clearly see his worst scars – his only scars – where the arm connects to his body.

It’s like Steve can’t help himself – he lifts a hand, but it only hovers over his chest. And Bucky . . . Bucky can’t resist. He grabs Steve’s fingers, presses them to the puckered, damaged skin.

“They don’t hurt anymore.”

Steve shakes his head, eyes already shiny. Oh, Steve, Bucky thinks. Such a sap. Then he looks straight at him, and wait, he isn’t sad. Steve is _pissed_.

“Why are you avoiding me, Buck?” Even though he’s angry, Steve doesn’t let go of Bucky’s hand. “And what aren’t you telling me?”

Right then, Sam bursts in through the door, breathing heavily. “Jesus! Goddammit, Rogers, this isn’t a race!”

Such an asshole, Bucky thinks, fondly. A warning squeeze on his fingers brings him back.

“Yeah, yeah. I need to tell you everything, I know. Don’t look at me like that – I ain’t been lying to you. It’s just . . .really complicated.”

Steve looks pained, while Sam rolls his eyes. Bucky hops off the examination table and starts removing the electrodes from his chest. Shuri’s med techs reluctantly help him. He puts on a shirt, finally breaking Steve’s stare at his chest, and he quirks an eyebrow.

Then he turns to Shuri. “Remember I asked you for a sheet of paper and a crayon?”

Shuri gives him the stink eye, gets out a large roll of paper and a box of some sort. “Remember when I told you we have markers nowadays?”

“Yeah. I only pretended to understand what you were talkin’ about. It’s like with Sam, I just nod and say yes to everything.”

Sam groans. “Man, you’re such an asshole. You’re an even bigger asshole than Sssssss- my other friend, who’s also an asshole.”

Steve is looking at them like he’s at a tennis match. “That’s ok, nowadays?” Bucky feels as blank as Sam looks, until he realises. Steve is bothered by the cursing, not because he doesn’t curse, but because there’s _ladies_ in the room.

Actually, Bucky’s glad that Steve chose that little quirk to latch on to – because otherwise he might have noticed Sam’s verbal slip, which he’s mouthing _sorry_ for, behind Steve.

“Yeah, Steve. You should hear the dames – turn the air blue, if you cross ‘em.”

Bucky takes the roll of paper and unrolls a length on the examination table, beckoning to Steve. He’s been thinking about how to explain all this, has come up with something, hopes it will work.

Shuri gives him a marker, she calls it – it looks like a thicker version of what he used for his notebooks in Romania. He allows himself to feel a twinge of loss, then pushes it down, firmly.

“Ok,” Bucky starts. “I’m gonna need you to listen without butting in. D’you think you can do that?”

Steve gives his most “aw, shucks ma’am!” look, paired with a smile. Bucky sighs. Maybe only one interruption, then.

“So,” he says, starting at a point at the end of the sheet, and drawing a straight line, stopping at an arbitrary point. He makes an asterisk at one end, labelling it ‘1945’. He puts the marker to the paper at a point some inches further down, to label it 2012, then pulls back. Should he start with the time travel now, or later? God, this is a fucking nightmare. Fuck you, Steve. You should be here to fix your mess.

Bucky sighs, rubs his eyes, and starts scrawling at the top of the page: _Time travel; dimensions; timelines._

“Buck?”

“What did I say about interruptions, Steve?”

“You ain’t saying anything, yet!”

“Just . . . let me get on with this.” Bucky points to what he’s written. “I need you to keep all this in mind.”

He taps the ‘1945’ label. “The Valkyrie goes down. Steve Rogers goes into the ice.” He chances a look at Steve, who nods. Bucky goes on, finds the dot he made before, writes ‘2012’. He looks up, catches Sam’s eye, feeling more lost than he’s ever been. Sam nods.

Bucky takes a breath. “2012. Steve Rogers is recovered by SHIELD.”

Steve is opening his mouth to say something, then closes it again. Maybe he understood the fact that ‘Steve Rogers’ is not necessarily him? Or maybe Bucky’s glare has reached Winter Soldier levels. Bucky ploughs on.

“Stuff happens. Aliens ‘n shit. Steve forms a group called the Avengers with other heroes. Anyway.” He adds another date to the line. “2014 – Steve Rogers brings down HYDRA, which has been hidden in SHIELD since the 50s. He frees me from HYDRA.”

Bucky chances a look at Steve, who’s horrified. “That long . . . “ It’s just a whisper, barely audible, and Steve doesn’t say anything else.

“2016 – Steve Rogers finds me in Romania. But it’s a trap, set by some guy, who’s not important right now. Just that there’s fighting, and Steve and some others become fugitives from the US government.”

Bucky knows that he’s leaving a lot out, but he doesn’t know how else to do this. It’s a complicated issue, and he hopes Steve is taking all this in.

“2018 – “ Bucky stops.

This is the worst part. He looks at Shuri, wishing she would tell him to stop. In the corner of the room, T’Challa is leaning back against the wall, arms crossed. He nods, and somehow Bucky gains strength from this.

“Buck?” Steve puts a hand on his arm, and that’s the rest of what he needs. End it, just end it, he tells himself. Steve could hear this from anyone, sure. But he’ll only _believe_ it from him.

He starts again. “2018. This alien called Thanos comes to earth, looking to complete a weapon. He says he’ll help balance the universe by killing half of . . . half of everything.” Steve gasps.

“We fight him. But it doesn’t work. And he just . . . snaps his fingers. And over 3 billion people- vanish. Flake away.”

Bucky’s voice cracks. He notices that Sam has to look down, doesn’t blame him. But he struggles on. Clears his throat, makes another note on the timeline. “2023 – Steve Rogers and the Avengers somehow bring everyone back. There’s another battle. This time we win.”

Steve looks down at the line with all its scribbles and notes, then stares at the words Bucky wrote at the top. He chews on his lower lip.

“That’s not the end . . . is it?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Steve Rogers tells us that he has to go all over the universe, different times and places, to return these powerful items. But,” he adds, pressing his marker against the asterisk he’s marked as 2023, and drawing a line back, back, back, stopping just after 1945. “He doesn’t come back. Not immediately.”

Steve is staring down at the line. Bucky knows that expression – that’s when Steve is thinking, faster than anyone else can. That’s not the serum, that’s always been Steve. It’s just that with the serum, all of Steve’s aches and pains are gone, and his brain is really free to work, and work it does.

“Wait a second – you wrote ‘timelines’, plural. So, by going back in time, Steve Rogers started another timeline.”

Steve is tracing over the lines with his fingers, chewing on his lower lip, eyes narrowed.

“He didn’t go back and merge with the other Steve who went down in the Valkyrie . . . with me, I mean. ‘Cos, I don’t remember that. And I think I would.”

Bucky closes his eyes, pictures Banner with a laser pointer and a very long and dull powerpoint, hurriedly opens them again. “Apparently, that’s not how quantum time travel works, Steve.”

Steve is nodding, looking at that line, again. “So, your Steve went back . . . to the forties? Why?”

Bucky sighs. God, he doesn’t want to do this. He rubs his forehead, looks at Sam for help, but Sam just half-smiles back. He can almost read Sam’s thoughts. This is something he has to do.

“Steve told me . . . after. He wanted to have a life . . . with Carter. Peggy. He went back to the forties and married her. They lived a life together. He came back to our timeline . . . “ The words are drying up in Bucky’s mouth. “He was old.”

“He . . . I . . . left you behind?” Steve isn’t buying this, any of this. “I didn’t take you with me?”

Steve is looking around him, like he’s begging for answers, explanations – but Bucky can’t give any. Maybe it was Vormir, maybe those five years after Thanos were enough for Steve to cut himself off from everyone and everything except Peggy.

A sound distracts him – a wheezing sound. Steve looks like he did before the serum, gasping for breath, face going red. Bucky’s feet are stuck to the ground – what’s happening? Did the serum stop working?

Sam puts a hand on his arm. “Nah, man – I think he’s having a panic attack.”

He turns to Steve. “Let’s go outside – get some fresh air.”

Steve looks at him, eyes wild. It sounds like he’s trying to say Bucky’s name, through wheezes. Bucky nods, tells him not to worry, he’s right behind them.

Instead, Bucky ends up leading them to the lake where Shuri had taken him to be healed, that time. Steve sits on the lakeshore, head on his knees, while Sam pats his back and talks about anything that comes to mind, it sounds like. He’s halfway through the major league baseball scores, when Steve raises his head with a watery smile, interrupting.

“That friend of yours who was less of an asshole than Bucky – that was me, right? Alternate me?”

Sam grins, one of his dazzling smiles. “Oh yeah.”

Just as Bucky is congratulating himself on a job well done, Steve brings all that crashing down around his ears.

“So, if I’m this timeline’s Steve, where’s this timeline’s Bucky? I mean, your Steve got you out in 2014. But over here, I was still frozen. When did he get Bucky out?”

Bucky can see when Sam’s grin freezes. His own face must also change, because Steve’s eyes narrow. This time, Steve doesn’t ask any more questions, because he doesn’t need to. Like Bucky could ever resist Steve giving him the silent treatment.

Bucky hedges. “He had to keep his presence a secret. As far as anyone knew, Steve Rogers died in 1945.”

Steve’s glare intensifies. He still doesn’t say anything.

“Steve only found that Bucky in 1991. He had to rely on that version of SHIELD to extract him.”

Steve looks away, anger radiating from his hunched shoulders. “He’s dead, isn’t he? My Bucky is dead.”

Bucky feels that like a blow to the gut. What the fuck does he think he’s doing here? He gets up, staggering, feeling every year of his age. He hears Steve say something but can’t make out the words through the buzzing in his ears. Yeah, Steve. You know what? I’m dead too.

It takes him an hour of wandering through some forest, but he finds the clearing where they had the showdown with Thanos, back in ’18. If he’s not mistaken, he muses, that’s the patch of dirt he landed in, face first, as he watched his hands dissolve with a quiet horror, only matched when his legs disappeared from under him.

Bucky sits there for a while, feeling like a moron. What now? They’ve found Steve, they’ve freed him. Now what? He’s clearly not the Bucky Steve wants, and he was a fool to ever think he could be.

He’s still thinking when there’s a deliberately heavy footfall behind him, the leaves crunching, almost like someone was told not to try and sneak up on him, or startle him.

He sighs. “Never be a spy, Steve – you suck at anything covert.”

“I think I know what that means; pretty sure your ma would wash your mouth out with soap if she heard that kind of talk.”

Bucky looks up, and Steve is grinning down at him. He sits down next to him in the fallen leaves, looking around him, but doesn’t say anything.

Bucky decides to bite the bullet. “Did Sam tell you about what happened to – the other Bucky?”

“He gave me some folders to read – I told him I couldn’t face watching a filmstrip.”

Bucky smiles at the term he hasn’t heard in forever, but Steve is still talking.

“He told me that everything in those files . . . it all happened to you, Buck.”

Bucky shrugs, not answering. So what? That didn’t change anything.

Steve sighs. “You know I didn’t mean it the way it sounded, right?”

Bucky looks up at the sky through the leaves. “It’s the truth.”

Steve groans, shakes his head. “No, Buck. You’re my Bucky. You’re my best friend. When I had nothing, when I was just a bag of bones with a list of problems as long as your arm, I had you. You always looked out for me, you took care of me – you’re doing it now, Buck. I’d still be frozen if it wasn’t for you.”

Bucky wonders why his eyes are stinging. “You wouldn’t say all that . . . you wouldn’t say any of it, if you knew what I did all those years, Steve.” He’s looking down at the forest floor, crumbling the leaves between his fingers, mumbling under his breath.

“Bucky, I know what ‘international assassin’ means. I may not read as much as you do, but I know that much.”

Bucky snaps his head up, narrows his eyes. “I killed Howard, Steve. I beat him to death with my fist and strangled his wife. How do you like your friend now?”

Two big hands grab his shoulders, shaking him. In a distant corner of his mind, Bucky notes that Steve’s not shying away from the metal part of him.

“You listen to me, James Barnes.” In that moment, Steve sounds so much like his ma, like Sarah Rogers, it’s uncanny. “You were forced to do those things, they made you do them.”

Bucky snaps out of his daze. ”How the hell would you know that?”

“There’s something called the internet? I guess Princess Shuri’s an expert, she found me some stuff. I only read a fraction of what they did to you and I got sick to my stomach. They tortured you, they found ways to coerce you. I want to find all those monsters and kill them for what they did to you, Bucky.”

Bucky’s shaking, now. He’s crying pretty openly, too, with a half thought that he’s spent too long in the 21st century – he used to be able to hold that stuff in. Steve pulls him in for a hug, squeezing until Bucky can hardly breathe. Which is why it takes him a second or two to catch on to what Steve is saying.

“I wish I could find that Steve who came out of the ice in 2012 – I’d give him a piece of my mind. And I’d deck him, goes without saying.”

Bucky pulls back, rubbing his eyes. “He did his best. He saved the world.”

Steve shakes his head. “He should have saved you – both of you.”

Bucky isn’t sure where Steve is getting all this from.

Steve looks away. “Sam – he told me a lot of what happened in your time.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Did he tell you what I did to Steve? I shot him three times, beat him half to death-“

“Pulled him out of the river,” Steve interrupts. “Where he would have drowned.”

“I didn’t even know Sam knew about that.”

Steve shrugs. “You’re tellin’ me he’s exaggerating?”

“No,” Bucky says, drawing the word out. “But Steve was in the ice for a long time – there was no way to know SHIELD was dirty.”

Again, he gets the side-eye from this Steve. “Sure, Buck. Look, I’m not saying I could have handled it different. And he was alone when he woke up – I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t seen your face as soon as I opened my eyes. Still . . . “

“I think,” Bucky starts, choosing his words with care, “that he thought an organisation started by Peggy and Howard couldn’t be bad.”

Steve thinks about that, running his hands through the grass, dry and brown in summer. He attacks the soil with a kind of violence, digging his fingers in, and the face that turns to Bucky is hurt, deeply pained.

“They hired Zola, Bucky. No, _she_ hired Zola. _Zola!_ An actual fucking Nazi. You _died_ on that mission. She sat at my side, in that pub and gave me lip service about your choice and all – and then she hires him! How could I have been so wrong about someone, Buck?”

Bucky is lost for words. What the hell? How can he answer this? The Steve he’s known after HYDRA hadn’t even questioned Peggy, not once.

“I don’t know what to say, Steve,” he answers, his thoughts are running in circles. “I guess she thought she was doing the right thing – reconciliation, and all.”

Steve’s face is furious. “I hope you ain’t telling me that the ends justify the means, Buck. And I read some history about post-war reconciliation – the actual Nazis were put on trial and hanged. Zola should have been there, too.”

Bucky can’t disagree. “His body died of cancer. He had his mind put in a computer, then Steve got him destroyed – by his own people, no less.”

“Good,” Steve answers.

“Are you mad?” Bucky asks, on impulse. Steve looks at him, raising his eyebrows. “That Steve – other Steve – took your girl?”

Steve opens his mouth to answer, then closes it again. In his head, Bucky can hear all the women he’s met in the 21st century screaming at him – he knows that’s not a thought he should even be having – but he needs to know. This is Steve – truly his Steve, in a way that the other had never really been. The man he’d met in 2014 had moved on without him, while this man was the one he’d followed, even into death.

“Was she ever my girl?” Steve asks, finally, and Bucky’s mouth falls open. “I know, don’t tell me – I made a fool of myself over her enough. She was the first girl to ever see me, I think. I remember ma used to tell me there’s someone out there for me, someone who’ll love me for myself. For a while, I thought that was Peggy.”

Bucky stretches both arms out, trying to get the kinks out of his back. “You died thinking it was Peggy.”

“Only because you were gone, Buck,” Steve answers, and Bucky feels it like a solid haymaker to the jaw. He can hear the judge counting down the KO, and the ground is spinning around him like a top.

“What?”

“You were dead, Bucky. You died a few days before that. I wasn’t even allowed to look for your body. I was alone at the Whip and Fiddle, drinking it dry, remembering that I let you fall. No,” he says, as Bucky tries to interrupt, “let me finish. Sure, I tried to imagine coming back from that mission, starting a life with Peggy, moving on.”

Steve leans back on his elbows, seemingly enjoying the sun coming through the leaves, warming his face.

“Then the Valkyrie, the bombs, everything. I hate to say it, but I gave up. What was the point of fighting, without my Bucky waiting for me?”

Bucky shakes his head, holding back a laugh with some difficulty. “When did you become such a charmer, Steve?”

“I’m a movie star, Buck. Comes with the territory.”

Bucky snickers. “Not when they’re crap.”

Steve laughs, snorting in the way Bucky remembers from before the war. He’s lost in happy memories for a second, then lifts his head to see Steve’s not laughing anymore, is serious now, bright blue eyes staring into his own.

“Can I try something, Bucky?”

Bucky shrugs and nods, wondering at that look, if this is a dream he’s having, if he hit his head somewhere.

The first press of dry lips against his own is not much of a surprise – that look in Steve’s eyes is one he’s only ever seen aimed at pretty girls. He closes his eyes, loses himself in the feel of Steve’s arms around him, the familiar warmth against him. Steve pulls back and Bucky opens his eyes again, only to see Steve touching his own lips, almost like he can’t believe it.

Then he looks at Bucky, lips widening in a grin. “Since when d’you chew gum, Buck?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “No-one smokes anymore, Steve. Or if they do, they get all sorts of hell for it.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, giving him a sidelong glance.

“So, what was that for, pal? I mean, you never gave me a second glance in that way before, even after you almost broke my nose for me.”

“I’m sorry, ok? I just thought . . .” Steve sighs, rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t know what I thought. Maybe I thought this was just one of your jerk moves, like the time you made me ride the Cyclone.”

“Seriously, Steve? Come on, man, that was 90 years ago!”

“Only a couple of years for me, Buck. And it’s the last thing we talked about before you fell. Which still feels like yesterday.”

Bucky puts his hand on Steve’s shoulder, squeezes. “I’m here now. I know I’m not the same man I was, but I’m working on getting some of it back.”

Steve grabs him by the arms again, like he can’t believe that they’re together, alive, like he has to squeeze him to believe it.

“You’ll always be my Bucky, do you understand? I don’t know for crazy timelines and quantum shit, and I don’t care. But you’re mine.” The words come with a little shake, as if to underline them.

“The one thing I realized in that pub and that plane was that you were the one for me, the one who saw me for who I was, always, and I let you slip through my fingers. I don’t know about that other guy, that other Steve. I don’t know what he went through, what made him do what he did – and I don’t care. You’re mine. They all can’t have you.”

The trees around them are all blurry, Bucky thinks. Maybe because he’s looking at them through tears. He gives Steve a watery smile. “You always did love your speeches. I’m glad I never saw your USO shows!”

Steve grins at Bucky. “You should have been so lucky . . . jerk!”

“Punk,” Bucky answers, and would say more, except for the embarrassed throat-clearing that interrupts him.

“I’d say I hate to interrupt, but I’m just really glad all y’all’s clothes are still on.”

Sam is looking down at them like an indulgent father interrupting the playdate. “Princess Shuri and all her techs just finished their argument about dimensional time travel, and now they’re asking if you’ve come to a decision, Steve.”

Bucky gets up, brushing the dirt and leaves off his legs, and then pulls Steve up. He can guess what the decision is about – whether to stay here or come back to their version of 2023.

“It isn’t even a question, Sam. Of course, I’m coming with you.” Steve crosses his arms, looking every inch Captain America, even in jeans and a t-shirt. Sam narrows his eyes.

“You know I got your old job, right? I’m the captain, now . . . I can’t believe I just said that,” Sam moans into his fist. “I blame you, Barnes.”

Bucky’s snickering while Steve looks puzzled. “Just a line from a movie, Steve.”

“Ok, you gotta show it to me some time. I’m not looking to push anyone out, Sam. Here, I got no-one. Even if they knew Steve Rogers, they knew a Steve who worked in the shadows, with SHIELD, who let his best friend kill himself because he thought he was all alone.”

Steve’s anger is palpable, a muscle twitching in his jaw, nostrils flared. For the first time, Bucky’s glad the other Steve died before this Steve could give him a piece of his mind.

“That’s not me. There’s nothing for me here. If I come with you, I have Bucky, and I have you, Sam. I know I’m not the friend you lost, but I hope I can still be a friend to you.”

This is the power Steve has, Bucky thinks. He talks and talks with that earnest look in his piercing blue eyes, and before you know it, you’re doing everything he wants.

Still, Bucky needs to be sure that Steve understands the reality of what he’s doing.

“Steve. The world we’re going back to – it’s a mess. Five years ago, billions of people turned to dust. A few months ago, they all came back. There were people on planes, on ships, in the middle of the road, falling from buildings which don’t exist anymore.”

Sam is nodding. “Bucky and me: we were lucky that we died in a forest . . . “ Sam trails off, looking around him with growing suspicion. “Just one goddam minute,” he says. “It was here, wasn’t it?” He glares at Bucky, who nods.

“You are one morbid fucker, anyone ever told you that?”

Bucky shrugs. “I spent a couple of decades pretending to be Russian. It kinda rubs off on ya.”

“Anyway – our dimension is fucked up. In a way, another Cap might even be a good thing! But I’m not gonna sugarcoat it, either.”

Steve shrugs. “All that does is convince me that I’m needed there, not here. Maybe that other Steve did one good thing: he created a world which doesn’t need Captain America; this world.”

Walking back to the palace, Bucky thinks about Steve’s words. Does this world need Cap? Is he doing it a disservice by taking Steve away? They still have the Black Panther, he insists. And maybe Sam’s managed to convince T’Challa to follow their T’Challa’s example – to open their borders, to reveal themselves.

It doesn’t take them long to set things up for their departure. There’s only a few awkward moments when Steve tries to give his shield to the Wakandans, who are extremely polite and gracious in their refusal.

“The vibranium was a gift from my grandfather, Captain,” T’Challa says in the end, gently. “Using it to help others will honor his memory.”

Bucky and Sam try to thank Shuri and the King as well as Okoye, but they are waved off. All three of them are wearing the hideous red and white quantum suits, and Sam explained the whole process to Steve, while Bucky set up the location marker. He tries to describe the experience of being inside the quantum tunnel, but it’s hard, and he feels like he’s not making sense.

Travelling back feels easier than the previous journey. At first.

Then, when they should arrive at their destination, they . . . don’t. Bucky’s been counting off the seconds in his head, he knows how long it should take, and just when there should be the light at the end of the quantum tunnel, so to speak, they hit a barrier, bounce off.

They’re moving again, in another direction, and Bucky tries not to panic, but it’s not easy. With every second that passes, Bucky’s remembering Scott’s story, of five hours in the quantum portal translating into five years in the real world. After a few seconds longer spent whirling around, he sees an exit, and exchanges hand signals with Sam and Steve, who are still on either side of him.

When they’re finally spat out onto the platform, it’s clearly not where they came from. There’s no trees around, it isn’t the open air – at least, that’s what he can sense from his vantage point on the floor.

Bucky’s once again curled up on his side, retching, while Sam is bending over, face grey and sweaty. Steve, of course, is fine.

“Where the hell is this?” Sam asks, looking around.

But Bucky’s already guessed where they are – it’s one of the underground labs in the tower, Avengers Tower that was. Standing around are Natasha, still a pre-teen, Scott, Colonel Rhodes, and Nick Fury. Steve pulls Bucky up, patting his shoulder, while looking at the others, clearly not recognising any of them. A momentary flash of hurt passes over mini-Natasha’s face, but then she schools her expression, and manages to insert a bit of the old husky drawl into her words.

“Hey fellas,” she says, smiling. “We have a problem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about all the talkiness - there was a lot to explain to Steve.
> 
> The bit about the championship at the 'Y':
> 
> By 1941 Bucky was a three-time YMCA welterweight boxing champion - but I couldn't find any exact dates, so I just threw a '39 in there.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Previously:** our three friends come back from an alternate timeline, only to find that there's a problem.
> 
>  **Now:** some talking, and some catching up.

Bucky’s skin is on fire. He’s burning from the inside out, soaking wet but on fire, just like it always is after cryo, when they wipe him. It doesn’t stop, it never stops, he’s long learned not to beg.

“Sergeant Barnes . . . Sergeant Barnes!”

Why won’t that four-eyed fuck stop mocking him, calling him sergeant? It doesn’t sound like Zola, though. It sounds like a woman, an Irish woman. HYDRA sure is everywhere.

_”Bucky!”_

Who the hell is Bucky? Wait. _I’m your friend. You know me._ No, I _don’t!_

 _”Bucky, wake up! You have to wake up!”_ The Irish dame’s having a conniption, as his ma used to say.

His ma . . . his ma. Yeah. His ma died in 1974; cancer. His pa followed soon after. When he looked it up, he saw the cause of death listed as heart failure. The old geezers in his old neighbourhood would have exchanged knowing looks. A broken heart, they would have said. Couldn’t live without her. Did Steve see them, meet them when he went back? No, he can’t have – even if he did, those were _other_ ma and pa, parents to the _other_ Bucky, the one who ate a bullet in some SHIELD bunker.

“I’m awake,” he croaks, forcing the words out through chattering teeth.

He’s standing in a shower cubicle, soaking wet, skin icy, in spite of the warm air being puffed out through the vents.

Slowly, it starts to come back to him. The quantum voyage in which a minute longer translated into a week in real time, being spat out in the Tower rather than the outdoor platform, and lying retching on the floor, like a soak who’s been thrown out one too many bars.

But this – this is a new low.

“I fell asleep in the shower?” Bucky still can’t believe it. He vaguely remembers staggering off from the group which was urgently, and with big gestures, explaining what happened, and just needing some time, some peace.

“You sounded like you were in distress, so I turned off the water.” FRIDAY’s voice is going for gentle.

Bucky doesn’t need that. He won’t have it. “I sounded like I was in _distress_? What?”

“You were whimpering like a day-old kitten.” The brogue is in full force now, and, despite himself, Bucky’s lips twitch.

“A likely story,” he snaps, while he lurches out of the shower, grabbing for a towel.

Bucky knows where he is now; it’s the gym where he usually trains with Sam, where he has his own locker, in case he wants to go out after. His passcode is his date of birth, because one of the many things that annoy him about this life in the future, is the sheer amount of numbers that everyone’s gotta memorise. It’s been drummed into him that they all have to be unique. In a tiny bit of rebellion, his are always the same. He figures if the government wants to get into his stuff so bad, let them. Once he told Sam that, and the lecture that followed sent him into a deep sleep, for which he thanked Sam, later. It’d been a while since he felt so rested.

Bucky’s just putting on some clean sweats he finds in his locker, when he hears footsteps. It’s amazing how his instincts have dulled, he thinks at first, because he can’t bring himself to tense up, become alert. Then, he realises why.

“Hey, Buck. You ok?” Steve looks worried, is trying to hide it.

Bucky tries to smile, but it’s not very successful, he knows that. “I don’t think that quantum thing agrees with my stomach,” he quips.

Steve shakes his head, and Bucky thinks he’s gotten away with it, this time. He’s wrong.

“You know you don’t have to hide from me, Bucky.” Steve’s got that stern look on his face, the one he first tried back in ’43, after Azzano. After Kreischberg. Bucky’s trying to remember how he got Steve off his back that time, but Steve’s way ahead of him.

“All that crap you pulled with me, back then, saying that you couldn’t show weakness, else they’d send you back home, or even blue ticket you. That doesn’t play anymore, so don’t try to-“ Steve pauses, index finger raised, like he’s gonna start an explanation and needs some chalk and a board. Then his eyes widen, a look of supreme betrayal in them. Oh, shit.

Two strides and Steve is looming over him, even though there’s nary an inch between them, height-wise. Bucky’s glad he managed to get his pants on at least, because the effect that it’s having on him . . . well. It’s not that he thought his dick was broken, after Siberia, but he’s forgotten what having Steve so close does to him, what it always did to him, even when he was just ninety pounds of rage in a ten-pound bag.

“All that crap you said – was that just to embarrass me, so I’d get off your back?”

Bucky looks down, sighs, looks up again. God, he’s missed this. “Kind of. I figured you were worried I’d mess up your chances with Carter, and you would stop asking.”

Steve shakes his head, raises a hand and cups Bucky’s cheek. “I’m not gonna deny I was dazzled by her, and you can’t blame me for that, Bucky. First woman who showed any interest in me, before I got . . . big.”

Bucky’s barely listening. He’s focusing on the feel of that warm hand on his cheek, it’s like he can feel each individual fingerprint, like it’s branding him, property of Steve Rogers. He wants to stay that way forever.

“But you were there before anyone, Buck. And if I hadn’t been so fuckin’ scared of bein’ arrested, or of someone looking at me and saying ‘fairy’, maybe . . . “

Bucky turns his face a little, in Steve’s hand, and kisses the palm. Steve sighs, cups the back of his head, pulls him forward. This time the kiss starts out soft and gets deeper, warmer, almost filthy. Bucky’s thigh is wedged between Steve’s, and he can feel that Steve is rock hard, burning up through layers of cloth.

They’re lost in each other. Bucky walks Steve back until they hit the wall, and Bucky wants to climb him, wants to wrap his legs around Steve’s waist and ride him. They break apart for air, and Steve’s eyes are full of love, and slight amusement.

“What?” Bucky asks.

Steve’s eyes crinkle. “You’ll do anything to stop from talking.”

Bucky shrugs. “Talking’s overrated. That’s all they do here, talk talk talk. Talk about your feelings, how you’re coping with waking up and finding out you killed more people than Jack the Ripper, how does it feel, Bucky, that you killed Howard Stark, that you killed his wife, that maybe you even killed a president – how do they _think_ it feels? Fuck.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “That’s the most I’ve heard you say in a while, Buck. You sure you’re feeling ok?” The way he stresses ‘feeling’ immediately gives the game away.

“Oh, I’m gonna make you feel something,” Bucky whispers, and unbuttons Steve’s jeans.

The sound of someone clearing their throat comes from the speakers hidden in the corners of the locker room. It’s nice that FRIDAY announces herself like that, Bucky thinks, vaguely, ‘cos it’s not like she needs to clear her throat.

“Captain Wilson has just left the south elevator, and is headed here.”

Bucky sighs, grumpily doing up Steve’s jeans. He catches Steve’s eye. “Not gonna ask me about the president?”

Steve cocks his head, a half-smile on his face. “I figured you’d tell me when you were ready – and what good will it do? That’s not the kind of talking I meant, and you know it. I want you to talk about what they did to you, Buck. According to all the stuff I read, that’s what you need to get-“

Steve pauses, getting that faraway look on his face which is just him trying something out in his head before he says it.

“- to get closure.” He grins, looking immensely proud of himself. “Anyway, I thought that Oswald mook did it, though there’s all sorts of theories. Don’t look at me like that, of course I know which president it was – I never thought it was McKinley.”

“Yeah, yeah. I think that was just HYDRA posturing, myself. I don’t remember any daylight missions during a parade, but I don’t remember much.” Bucky chews on his lower lip. “What I do remember – is pain. They were good at that.” Bucky looks at Steve through his lashes, waiting for the judgement, waiting for Steve to call him a pussy. Though, when has Steve ever done that?

Steve keeps looking at him, his eyes kind. “I’ll always listen to what you gotta tell me, Bucky. You know that, right?”

Bucky blinks, rapidly, ordering the tears to stay in. He nods, eyes lowered.

“Hey – sorry if I’m interrupting something – but we need to haul ass on this sitch.” Sam doesn’t sound even faintly apologetic. Bucky gratefully converts his near crying debacle into an eyeroll.

Steve nods. “I think I understood maybe two words in that sentence – but I got it. He’s right, Buck. It’s pretty bad.”

Bucky sighs. “Just lay it on me. I can take it.”

Half an hour later, he’s sitting in one of the conference rooms, head in hands, resisting the urge to groan. There’s Fury and Scott Lang with them, with Natasha curled up in a corner, tapping on her mobile phone. Steve keeps giving her worried looks, like he’s wondering what a kid is doing there, until he remembers what they told him, that she’s not really a child.

“So, you just let them take him?” Bucky knows he’s being unfair, but he really can’t help it. Banner had done so much for them, for him.

“We didn’t let them do anything, dammit!” Fury’s one visible eye is narrowed, and Natasha smirks, one-sided. “They were waiting for you two to disappear, and then they moved in. They had a goddam rocket launcher, which Banner would probably have survived, but there were civilians around.”

“This Ross guy – he didn’t care about the civilians?” Steve sounds like he knows the man was once a General, but doesn’t care to give him that title anymore.

Natasha smirks again, just as humourless as before. “He never cared. Ross was involved in the experiment that changed Bruce in the first place.”

Steve rubs his mouth. “Jesus. And now they have him.”

“So, in the week it took for us to come out of the quantum tunnel, Walker and Ross said that we’d been experimenting with weapons of mass destruction, said that we were probably dead, and ‘arrested’ Banner.” Sam looks like he’s trying to make himself believe the words that are coming out of his mouth.

“Yeah,” Fury goes on. “Good thing that none of _us_ were there, else we’d have been in – wherever Banner is now. As it is, we’re on extremely thin ice, what with the Sokovia Accords being back in play.”

“See, what we didn’t realise,” Natasha’s little girl voice continues, “is that the Accords were never actually rescinded; it’s just that half the population turned to dust. Then, when everyone came back, five years later, the people who liked the Accords came back too.”

“I don’t understand one thing,” Steve starts, pure righteousness radiating from his pores. Bucky loves him when he gets like this. “This man,” he goes on, gesturing at Sam, “is Captain America! You’ve been Captain America for months! How can they just . . . turn on you like that?”

The way Sam’s lips twist could never be mistaken for a smile. Everyone in the room – except Fury – is now looking elsewhere. Sam sighs, and brings out his phone, apparently searching for something online. It turns out to be John Walker. He finds a picture, turns it towards Steve.

“This is the guy they wanted for Captain America.”

Steve’s eyes widen, and his lips become a thin line. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Sam doesn’t need to say more.

An uncomfortable silence falls over their little group. Scott, who’s always struck Bucky as the type of guy who’s allergic to uncomfortable silences, breaks it.

“I still don’t get how they think they can hold Banner – I mean, the Incredible Hulk! Come on!” Scott says the words like he’s announcing a movie, or a sideshow attraction, but he’s right. With a dawning sense of horror, Bucky’s pretty sure he knows the answer.

“I know how – I’m not sure where, but I know how they’re holding him.”

Sam’s eyes narrow. “You mean that thing they put you in, that time in Berlin? But you broke out of that! And then you threw me across a room, don’t think I forgot.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, though he knows Sam’s trying to lighten the atmosphere too.

“Always with the whining – you ripped off my wings, you trashed my car –“ at this point even Natasha’s giggling, and he’s glad he made her laugh a little, cos she’s not gonna be for much longer.

“I only broke out once the electrics were fried – before that, I couldn’t move. If I did, I’d get zapped. That other Ross guy, _Everett_ Ross, had a really good time telling me all about it. For me, they’d set up something special, he said. Not as strong as the mind wipes – they wanted me to talk, after all – but just a little lower.”

As Bucky remembers that day, remembers that weasel enjoying his little power play, it’s like he’s mesmerised by his own voice.

“Anything I did they didn’t want, and I’d be riding the lightning. So. I didn’t move. Not until the lights went out. I wouldn’t have tried anything then, either, except that jerk Zemo read the control words.” Bucky chews on the inside of his cheek, a tidal wave of memory breaking over him, the _words_ growing inside his head until there’s nothing else left.

“I thought I could break out before he finished. I was wrong.” Bucky realises that the room’s fallen silent, and he looks up from his hands, which he’s been wringing, something he hasn’t done in a while.

Steve’s eyes are shining, his face frozen in an expression of horror, while Scott looks like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. Natasha is mouthing words he’s pretty sure would get her grounded for life, if anyone besides him understood Russian. Fury’s face betrays nothing, as usual. Bucky sometimes wonders if Fury thinks all this is something he deserves, for all that he’s done, up to and including having tried to kill him.

“Steve never told me about any of this,” Sam says, squeezing the words out, like it hurts to talk. Bucky twitches. Yeah, about that.

“You know I went back into cryo, straight after Siberia,” Bucky says. He wants to add that the Steve he met in 2014 never had much time for him, though that wasn’t fair. It was Bucky who ran away, over and over, and then, once he decided to stay, it was too late. “It’s not like we were having heart to hearts once I woke up again.”

Sam takes a few seconds, his jaw working, then he visibly pulls himself together. “It makes sense. In fact, it makes so much sense that I think Ross, Secretary Ross, had this thing built to control the Hulk in the first place.” Man, Sam’s quick, Bucky thinks. He’s put this together in a few seconds.

“And I’m pretty sure I know where they’ve got him. The only – the main – problem is gonna be getting him out.”

This time it’s Lang who gets there before anyone else. “That prison they kept us in? They had some dumb name for it – the Raft? You think he’s there?”

Sam nods. “Steve and the Wakandans didn’t destroy it; they just got us out and disabled some systems. Easy enough to start everything up again. And it was built to contain enhanced humans.”

After that, the talk fizzles out. Once Natasha starts fake yawning, Sam calls the meeting to order. No one explains how the platform was reassembled in the Tower, because it’s obvious: Scott got the original designs from Hank Pym, and, what with his abilities, could easily sneak in and out. No-one dares accuse the King and Crown Princess of Wakanda of collusion with the terrorists Samuel Wilson and James Barnes, so the Tower is safe for them. Still, politically the situation is so fraught that it’s best they stay home, for now.

At least he and Sam can stay in their apartments. The security is so good that no-one will ever know they’re there. There’s FRIDAY to take care of that. Wait a second, Bucky thinks. They need a place for Steve. Just then, as they’re all trooping out of the conference room, Steve bumps his shoulder, giving him a sidelong look and a half smile.

“We can put the couch cushions on the floor, I can shine your shoes, how about it, Buck?”

Bucky feels his cheeks heat up. The way Steve says it, makes it sound much more salacious than Bucky ever meant it to be. Or maybe not.

“Yeah, yeah,” he answers, “you’re all talk, Rogers.”

So, Bucky doesn’t raise the whole ‘apartment for Steve’ issue with anyone, and is feeling kind of pleased with himself, until they actually arrive at his apartment, and the lights go on as soon as he walks in. The windows are thankfully opaque and will stay that way – FRIDAY finally listened to his impassioned arguments, though he was sure he heard a mutter of ‘paranoid’ coming from the speakers – and the entrance and living room are bigger than the entire apartment Steve shared with his mom.

Bucky starts talking fast, not sure of what he’s saying. “Do you want a shower – no, clothes, you’ll want clothes. Pajamas? Not sure I got anything in your size-“

He’s cut off by two hands dropping on his shoulders. “Bucky.”

Bucky looks up into kind eyes – no – there’s a wicked glint which makes his skin heat up.

“I think, back at the gym, we were in the middle of something.”

Just like that, Bucky’s awake again. Steve is looking straight at him, head cocked in the way that makes him melt, inside, asking a question without words. Bucky swallows, and acts on impulse, zooming in for a kiss, starting innocent and then nibbling at Steve’s luscious lower lip. The kiss gets deeper, like they want to get inside each other, and he pulls back, almost laughing.

“How about we get horizontal, Steve? Or is this too soon for you?”

Steve’s eyes narrow. “Pal, you woke me up from a hundred-year nap – that don’t mean I’m sleeping beauty. Come on,” he adds, grabbing Bucky’s hand and dragging him towards the bedroom. He doesn’t seem to notice that it’s Bucky’s left hand he’s holding. He really doesn’t care, Bucky marvels, and feels another rush of joy, like he’s finally given in to Lang and tried that weed he keeps going on about.

Steve stops in front of the bed, eyes wide. “Wow, Buck. This is – wow. D’you hold orgies in here?”

Bucky snickers. “Just me, buddy. This is the new America – everything’s bigger.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve smirks, raising an eyebrow. He grabs Bucky by the waist and pulls him in for another kiss. “We’ll see about that.” Their hips grind together and Bucky moans into Steve’s mouth, hard again. This time though, there’s no one waiting for them to stop, and no helpful AI observing them – at least, Bucky hopes not.

Steve pulls back, takes off his shirt, and god, that chest – Bucky remembers the first time he saw Steve shirtless, back in ’43. Sure, he’d loved and wanted his pigeon-chested ball of fury, but even a dead man would stand up and take notice. Steve’s cheeks go pink, but he raises his eyebrows, nodding at him.

“Now you.”

Bucky freezes. “Steve, I-“

He doesn’t know what to say. He starts half-a-dozen openings and stops again. He realises he’s closed his eyes when he feels Steve’s warm breath on his face, and a kiss is dropped on each closed eyelid.

“I’ve seen it, already, jerk. It’s you, and I love you. Do you need me to say it? Come on.”

Bucky’s eyes are stinging but he doesn’t open them. He drags the shirt up and off with trembling fingers, standing there, waiting for Steve’s reaction. He doesn’t wait long, almost jumps in surprise when he feels a warm breath on his chest, soft lips on his scars. His eyes fly open, only to see Steve, kneeling in front of him, an impish look on his face.

“You want me to go lower?”

Bucky gets even harder, which he didn’t think was possible. Steve pulls at his waistband and Bucky shudders – he’s not an innocent, he’s done this before, but has never felt so intensely, like his mind in on fire. In a good way.

“Hey,” Bucky says, passing his fingers through Steve’s hair. “Get on the bed. That floor’s gonna be hell on your knees.” He doesn’t know why he says it – or maybe he does.

So does Steve. “Moving too fast, Buck?”

“You’re such a punk,” he murmurs, kneeling on the bed, pulling Steve down with him. He wants to say go slow, or let’s just kiss first, and does it instead.

They kiss, forever, it feels like, horizontal this time, with Steve on his back and Bucky sprawled between his legs, until Bucky’s lips are numb and his breath is short. A big warm hand dips under his waistband and grabs a handful of his ass, and Bucky snorts.

“Something you wanna ask me, pal?” Bucky looks up into grinning eyes. Steve’s cheeks are pink, but his hand doesn’t stop.

Steve sighs a little, then looks down at Bucky again. “You know I spent months touring with about thirty really pretty dancers, right? I mean, I noticed that some of them were more interested in each other than in me, but there were a couple who wanted to show me the ropes. Of . . . you know.”

This isn’t much of a surprise to Bucky. He remembers noticing a new confidence about Steve, after Azzano, and it wasn’t all due to the serum. Still . . .

“So, what was all that bellyaching over Carter – oh, Peggy’s so pretty! Peggy’s so clever! But I think she’s doing something with Stark! Hey, Buck, what’s fondue?”

Steve flicks Bucky on the forehead with one hand while the other pinches his ass. “Can’t believe I forgot what a jerk you are. You could have told me that fondue is just melted cheese.”

Bucky shrugs, as best he can, sprawled all over Steve like a blanket. “I was jealous.”

Steve flushes, grabs Bucky’s face and plants one on him. “Like I told you, Buck – I was dazzled. The ladies – women? – on the chorus line were pretty sweet, but they never wanted anything permanent. And Peggy treated me like I had something to offer, even before the serum.”

Bucky, lips tingling from the kiss, considers that. “Do you miss her?”

“Maybe a little. What could have been, right? But that’s in the past, Bucky. My ma always used to tell me, that if I wanted to grow, I had to let go of the past. Now, you’re not gonna say my ma gave me bad advice, are you?”

Bucky huffs a surprised laugh. “I wouldn’t dare.”

Steve grins, his fingers spreading over Bucky’s face, thumb rubbing his lower lip. Bucky kisses it, turning his head so he can kiss the palm. He comes to a decision, gets up, drops another kiss on Steve’s forehead.

“Wait here,” he instructs, and goes to the bathroom.

Some time in the last few months, a box of condoms appeared in here. Bucky doesn’t know who was dropping the hint, but now he’s thankful for it. He takes one out, turns to go, then goes back and takes another. There’s a bottle of what he can only call slick, and he grabs that too.

Steve’s propped up on his elbows when Bucky comes back – he’s still smiling, though he’s a little confused, with it.

“Rubbers, pal,” Bucky says, “and this stuff,” he adds, waggling the bottle, “so much better than the Vaseline they used to give us. If you really want to,” he mumbles, suddenly shy, face on fire.

“Oh, yes, Bucky,” Steve says, and the heat in his voice makes Bucky shiver. “I _really_ want to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's parents' fate is my own headcanon; I'm pretty sure the MCU never bothered with them at all.
> 
> I have some references to The First Avenger - specifically the 'fondue' thing, which I have always hated with a deep hatred. 
> 
> When Steve tells Bucky what his mom used to tell him, I'm quoting from the comics, as that was Sarah Rogers' advice to him (Earth - 616).
> 
> I hope you've noticed the change in chapter numbers - the last chapter is in first draft. It used to be part of this one, but I found a good stopping point to split it up. 
> 
> 'Blue ticket' - this was slang for a soldier being court-martialed for homosexuality. He would be kicked out and sent home, the reason would be known and the stigma would stay with him, even in civilian life.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the end! Thanks to all those who left kudos and commented!
> 
> Mission rescue Bruce Banner is go!

The next morning, Bucky wakes up with his face buried in Steve’s stomach, and a familiar hand sliding through his hair. He lifts his head, bleary-eyed. Steve is looking unfairly bright and cheerful. He always was a morning person.

“Hair’s getting long, Buck.”

Bucky snorts. “Should have seen me when I was – well. You know.” He waves his hand in the air and makes to sink back in the comfy position he woke up in.

“No, you don’t. I need some coffee. I’ve been reading up, and I wanna try some of that new stuff.” Steve pauses. “I think the long hair’d look good on you.”

Bucky’s lips twitch. “It kinda did, yeah.” He’s always wondered why they never gave him a buzz-cut, the upkeep would have been so much easier.

“C’mon, up you get.” Steve isn’t gonna be distracted, looks like.

So, Bucky groans and moans his way off the bed, pretending to have to stretch to get the kinks out of his back. Steve isn’t fooled, just gives his ass a slap when he gets within reach, and Bucky can’t help a snicker.

They get in the shower together – it’s big enough – though Bucky puts the kibosh on any funny business.

“I’m not gonna be the one to explain to everyone how Captain America broke his head in the shower!”

Steve chuckles, but doesn’t remove his hand from Bucky’s ass, where it’s been for the past few seconds. “Just a kiss, sweetheart, come on.”

The warm feeling in Bucky’s chest is so unfamiliar, it’s almost painful, and he lets himself get pulled in the cradle of Steve’s arms, his mouth invaded like Steve can’t live without his kiss. They’re plastered together, hot water running down their bodies, and Steve manages to get his hand between them, grabbing his cock and jerking him until he can’t breathe.

“God, Bucky, you’re so sweet – come on, give it up for me, let go, I got you.”

Bucky’s orgasm takes him by surprise, and he yells, shuddering in Steve’s arms. When his brain starts working again, he’s glad that their apartments are sound-proofed, and hopes, once again, that FRIDAY isn’t listening in.

He manages to get his breathing under control, and squints up at Steve, who gives him an innocent smile.

“Just a kiss, huh?” Bucky snarks, conscious of Steve’s cock, hard as steel, burning into his thigh. “You gonna go meet the others like this?”

Steve’s smile grows wicked. “I thought maybe my old pal could give me a hand.”

“I’ll do more than that, _pal,”_ Bucky purrs, as he sinks, slow and slick, to his knees.

He ignores Steve’s half-hearted protest in favour of licking up the length of Steve’s cock, pursing his lips over the crown, relishing the strangled yelp above his head. He reaches out blindly, grabs Steve’s hand, puts it on the back of his head. Then he goes to work, lost in his own bliss.

When they walk into the conference room about half an hour later, Steve’s got his arm around Bucky’s neck, reminding him of that time he rescued Steve from having his clock cleaned in an alley. Bucky, who’s laughing at something Steve told him – that he picked a fight in a movie theatre because some jerk made a lady cry – hears the chatter of conversation die off.

Bucky turns to the others, and they look . . . not that surprised. Then, Scott’s grin splits his face in two, and he makes come hither gestures with both hands.

“That’s right, bring it in, Scott was right, oh yeah.”

Fury, Natasha, Rhodes and Wilson start handing over ten-dollar bills. Bucky puts on a hurt expression.

“Sam, you bet against us? I thought we were buds!”

Sam rolls his eyes, pretending to smooth an eyebrow with his middle finger. “I thought it would take you more than two days, damn!”

Bucky sneaks a look at Steve, who isn’t offended, not at all.

“It took us almost a century,” Steve says, smiling. “Figured I waited long enough.”

“Enough,” Natasha says, “before I really become a pre-teen and start making gagging noises.”

Sam’s standing in front of a large easel with some paper tacked to it. At Bucky’s curious look, he just says that if it isn’t online, it can’t be hacked. Bucky’s pretty sure he hears an indignant noise from the hidden speakers, but Sam ignores it, and so does he. Scott walks up, fresh from counting his winnings, and starts making sketches of what he remembers from the Raft. Sam adds some more. They know where it is – the co-ordinates – they’re just unsure how to break in.

Bucky goes to pour himself coffee, and gets one for Steve, too, which is when he notices Steve standing in front of the growing diagram, arms crossed, face like thunder. When Sam makes annotations like ‘underwater’ and ‘electrified’, and finally ‘straitjacket?’, Steve explodes.

“Are you telling me that the U.S. government put you in this secret prison? Without trial? Colonel Rhodes?” Bucky tries to remember if the other Steve ever sounded that profoundly shocked. He doesn’t think so.

Rhodes has the grace to look ashamed, even though it wasn’t really his doing.

“To be fair, Rhodey was recovering from a spinal injury at the time,” Fury interjects, only to flinch as Steve’s laser-like focus turns to him.

“I know that!” Steve passes a hand over his face, his other clenched at his side in a fist.

“I read about that. I’m sorry, sir,” he continues, in a calmer tone, addressing Rhodes. “It’s just – when I think of what we fought for, I never imagined . . . people who sacrificed their hopes and dreams to help humanity. That’s not what they deserved.”

Silence falls. As usual, Sam thinks it’s on him to break it.

“Man, stop it. You’re gonna make me weep. Anyway, how to get in. Steve had help from the Wakandans that time, but I really don’t wanna get them involved. They need plausible deniability.”

Fury leans back in his chair. “Maximoff has immense powers.”

Scott and Sam practically jump on him.

“She’s a kid!” comes from Scott, and “No way!” is Sam’s contribution.

A snort from the corner and all eyes turn to Natasha. “How very paternalistic of you. Maybe she’d want to help.”

“And maybe not, but she’d feel obligated.” Even as the words leave his mouth, Bucky feels surprised.

Everyone else is, too. Except for Steve, who looks at him like he’s tiny and covered in fur, and just did something adorable.

“She’s lost so much – her brother, her . . . friend.” Bucky chews on his lip. “If Walker and the others didn’t involve her, let’s leave her out of it too.”

“Well, that means Peter is right out,” Fury says, and everyone nods.

Sure, the kid is super-strong, and has all sorts of tech Stark left him, but he’s a _kid._ Bucky still remembers the bone-chilling feeling of having someone catch his punch, and the extra horror of realising he could have hurt a child. Though Sam did try to help, if you counted help as sending him an endless succession of ‘memes’ with the title ‘realised he just threw hands with a twelve-year-old’.

Sam rubs his forehead, and Scott opens his mouth, only to close it again when Sam glares at him.

“If the next words out of your mouth are ‘who’re you gonna call?’, I will end you,” Sam says, pointing at Scott.

“I was not going to say that,” Scott answers, though the sparkle in his eyes suggests otherwise. “I was _going_ to point out that Professor Banner’s closest friend is the Norse god of thunder, so maybe we should get him onboard?”

“What?” That’s Steve, who looks like this might be the last straw for him.

But everyone else is nodding, like this is normal, and Fury goes on to say, “Yeah, but he went off into space with those assholes, and who the hell knows how to reach them. Don’t even ask about Danvers, got no idea where she’s hanging.”

 _“What?”_ Steve repeats, a little louder this time.

Well, whaddya know, Bucky thinks – I’m ahead of stuff this time. He clears his throat.

“They’re not gods, not really. Just very powerful, immortal aliens, and they all have names from Norse myth, and they used to live on a planet called Asgard . . . you know what, just call ‘em gods.”

Steve is nodding slowly, like he’s wondering when he hit his head, and how can he make it stop. Natasha catches his eye, and he blushes, clearly embarrassed at having less self-control than a kid. But Nat isn’t smirking or looking superior – instead, she holds her phone out to him.

They all gather round to have a look. In a gallery simply labelled ‘Thor’, there’s a fairly large collection of pictures. Oh, and videos, too. Turns out that Stark’s drones took video of that battle at the end – either that, or FRIDAY’S a fan. The stills are almost exclusively of Thor, glowing eyes, battle-axe and all.

“This all looks very impressive,” Steve says, and his eyes are pretty wide, though his voice is steady, “but how are we getting in touch with him?”

A loud throat-clearing draws their attention to the hidden speakers in the room. If an AI could sound sheepish, it would sound like FRIDAY right now, Bucky thinks.

“I think I can be of assistance, here.”

They manage to avoid exchanging looks and raised eyebrows, though it’s clearly a struggle on Scott’s part.

“When Professor Banner and his companion got Thor from New Asgard, I was asked to set up a secure line so that he could continue gaming with his friends from the Avengers complex. I could use it to get into contact with them. I’m sure the Queen has a way of getting in touch with Thor, if she needs to.”

This time Bucky’s eyebrows rise into his hairline. “Thor was gaming?”

He doesn’t mean to sound so shocked – it’s just that the terrifying figure on the battlefield, lightning coursing through him, eyes glowing, wielding an immense battle-axe, didn’t strike him as someone who played video games. But no-one needs to defend Thor, not when FRIDAY’s around.

“He was under a great amount of stress!” the AI protests.

In the midst of the silence that falls, Natasha mutters, “Someone’s got a crush.”

“Don’t blame her,” Scott says. “Just look at those shoulders!”

The laughter that followed is strained, and Bucky knows what’s going on – they’re trying to distract themselves from thinking about Banner, and what Ross is doing to him right now. He catches Steve’s eyes, exchanging a knowing look. Battlefield nerves – they’ve been there.

Sam calls him and Steve over to the diagram of the Raft, and they look for ingress points. This is where Steve’s strength lies – he’s best at figuring out weak points, and soon they have an idea of a shift change when they could attack. But it’s all useless without Thor. Just as he has that thought, FRIDAY tells them she has a secure connection to the Valkyrie who’s the Queen of New Asgard, now.

Bucky’s seen her, riding into battle on a winged horse, but she’s just as impressive in a homespun sweater and her hair pulled back off her face.

“Hey, guys. What’s up?”

She looks at each of them in turn, not really curious, until her gaze stops at Steve and Nat, brows wrinkling. But she doesn’t ask, just waits for them to come out with it. Bucky looks at Sam, whose expression is full ‘Why do I have to do everything around here?’ Then he braces himself, turns to the screen, where the Valkyrie is waiting.

“They took Bruce. We need Thor to get him back.”

Her face, oh, her face. Without changing expression, it promises violence and a painful death for anyone who’s hurt Bruce. See, Bucky _forgot._ Though it seems that everyone else did, too. When Thor was stuck on that planet with Banner, she was there. In fact, they’d found her there, drinking away her sorrow at the loss of her sisters in arms.

“You can’t do anything,” Bucky blurts out, and when the laser-focus of her gaze turns to him, he wonders if she’ll kill him quick. “I’m sorry, _your majesty_ , he stresses, “but you can’t be involved. Thor can, because he’s not the king anymore.”

She takes a few deep breaths, clearly wanting to tell him he’s wrong. Bucky knows he isn’t, though. The Asgardians live on earth, now, have to follow earth rules.

Pressing her lips together, the Valkyrie nods. There’s some worried chatter on her side, but she ignores it, pressing a few buttons on her console. She mutters something into the microphone, and Bucky guesses that she’s speaking to Quill and the others.

After a few seconds, they hear a bellow of joy from her side, and a few beeps later, Thor’s happy grin fills the screen. His hair and beard are short again, and he looks younger, almost. Bucky chews his lip. He wishes they didn’t have to do this to him, but Thor is really their only hope.

Thor looks at each of them in turn, his face changing expression when he sees theirs. Just as Bucky’s wondering what he’s going to say about Natasha, he realises that she isn’t in the room anymore. He sighs. They’re going to have to do something about that. Bucky knows she hates this, hates the thought that she might actually have feelings, and might have to deal with them, but it’s not fair on her friends.

Fury steps forward just as Thor looks at Steve, forehead creasing, eyes narrowed.

“Look, I know what you’re gonna ask, and I promise, you’ll get answers. But this,” he goes on, indicating Steve, “isn’t why we’re calling you.”

Thor’s eyes widen, and he looks them over again, noticing who’s missing. “Bruce.”

“Yes. General Ross – and someone else – they took him. They made up some crap about terrorism, even treason, but that’s not why.”

But Thor isn’t listening any longer. One of his eyes is glowing. A sizzling sound offscreen suggests that a spark just left his fingers. Bucky’s pretty sure that’s a bad sign.

“Where – where is he?” It’s like the rage won’t let him speak normally.

Sam steps forward. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you need to calm down.” Thor’s head snaps around, he’s biting back words. “We can’t go off all half-cocked, dammit. We have the advantage of surprise right now. Let’s use it.”

Thor breathes deep, nostrils flaring. He squeezes his eyes shut for a few moments, and when they open again, the glow is gone. “Fine! Just tell me a time and a place, and I’ll be there.”

Just then, a hand drops on Bucky’s arm, and he looks up into Steve’s eyes. Steve draws him away from the screen; Bucky thinks he knows why.

“So, this Thor – they said he’s on a spaceship right now?”

Bucky is actively feeling sorry for Steve, who never read a page of science fiction before he started living it.

“Yeah. After the whole confrontation went down, and Stark’s son died, and Natasha ‘died’, Thor decided he needed some time . . . away from painful memories.” Having seen a flash of red hair in the doorway, Bucky feels no shame at the air quotes, and raises his voice a little on the last phrase.

Steve ignores all of this. “So, how’s he gonna get down here?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Sam interrupts. “Steve – other Steve – told me how he gets places. Not gonna try to describe it, though, so don’t ask.”

“Captain Rogers!” Thor raises his voice a little to be heard over their conversation, and Steve faces the screen. “Steven – the one from this reality – was a good friend of mine. I hope that we can work together just as well.”

Steve nods, and Thor looks at each of them in turn. “A week from now, at this time, and at the co-ordinates you will send. I will delay no longer than that.”

His image winks out, and there’s the Valkyrie looking out at them, fury barely suppressed.

“Get him back,” she says, all queen now, and then she’s gone too.

“So, we got a week,” Scott sighs. “Not nearly long enough to plan a heist.”

Steve’s eyebrows climb into his hairline, but he doesn’t say anything. Bucky’s sure he’s gonna say something later, though.

The planning they’re doing doesn’t just involve physically breaking into the Raft; it’s also about discrediting Ross so that it can never happen again. It’s clear from his actions that he’s been biding his time, pretending to accept Sam and Bucky – the whole team, in fact – while working on Walker and somehow using Banner.

“Well,” Sam suggests, during one of the many meetings they have during the week, “the idea was always to find another working version of the serum they used on Steve and Bucky, to make more supersoldiers, so maybe this is what they want with Banner.”

The room is silent while they think about this.

“Fine, fine,” Rhodes adds, “but we need to split this thing right open. It’s become all about the Accords – again! Man, I never thought I’d be stuck in 2016 forever. Anyway, I read through the Accords – every scrap of boring legalese in the world – and whaddya know: there’s nothing about a secret underwater prison where people can be held without trial.”

Steve nods. “Yes, but there is a lot about enhanced individuals being locked up if they use their abilities without permission.”

Bucky’s not surprised that Steve read the Accords – he’d have been surprised if he hasn’t.

“Look, I thought that was over with – that the Accords were rescinded, that the signatories all dropped out! Didn’t that happen?” Lang sounds frustrated, and Bucky can’t blame him. He feels the same sense of déjà vu that they’re all feeling – all except Steve, of course.

“We’ll have to look into that,” Fury interjects. “Now, the priority is getting you folks out of the Tower and onto the Raft without anyone noticing.”

“We could use the quantum tunnel,” Scott says.

“No!” Bucky’s voice sounds really loud, to his ears. He’s been quiet, throughout, not thinking he has anything to add. But he has to say something about this.

“I don’t know what that thing is doing to us, every time. I still don’t understand how Steve got so old – I thought his cells weren’t supposed to age like that. At least, that’s what he told me. I’d rather we forgot that thing existed. No offence, Lang.”

“None taken, bro.”

“You said that the Tower functions as the Wakandan Embassy to the U.S.,” Steve says, and a couple of nods are his answer. “I’m sure that neither Princess Shuri or the king use commercial air travel to get here – or any Wakandan for that matter.”

“Yeah, that’s an idea,” Sam murmurs. “We can borrow a Wakandan jet. They have cloaking abilities, and we can get to the Raft without being discovered.”

Bucky wants to object, even though he knows it’s the only way. He really hates involving the Wakandans in this.

Sam rolls his eyes. “You know that Shuri and her team are the ones who found the Raft, right? They were so mad when we told them they couldn’t come with.”

Bucky waves it off. Yeah, he gets it.

The week is taken up with planning, trying to make sure nothing catastrophic will go wrong, as well as stressing that Scott can in no way be a part of the mission. Scott’s protests are half-hearted, which Bucky can understand. The last time he helped the Avengers, he was held in an underwater prison for weeks and then spent a year under house arrest. It isn’t fair to him, or his family to endanger his freedom again.

In fact, Bucky, Sam and Steve are the only ones who can take part. Shuri isn’t the only one who’s pissed off about this decision. Natasha hasn’t spoken to them for days.

Bucky tries to apologise to Steve halfway through the week. Steve just looks at him with raised eyebrows, probably because they’re in bed at the time, taking every opportunity to spend time together before the mission.

“What are you sorry for, Buck?” he asks, as he draws invisible circles on Bucky’s chest. Bucky shivers.

“I dragged you back here, right into a fight,” he says, trying hard to stop from moaning, as Steve kisses the places his fingers have been.

Steve grins up at him, lashes brushing his skin. “You know I love a good fight, Buck. I don’t know why you think I want to rest or whatever.”

With that, Steve rolls over on top of Bucky, his knees between Bucky’s spread legs. Clearly, he considers the conversation over. Steve slides his hands up Bucky’s thighs, then under, behind his knees, pushing them up. Bucky feels as pliable as a rag doll, and lets Steve position him like one.

He’s still slick from the last time, and Steve’s fingers drag a whimper out of him. Steve’s filthy grin turns worried.

“You ok, Buck? I wasn’t too rough with you?”

Bucky looks at him through narrowed eyes. “Not even gonna go there, Stevie. Stop treating me like some dame you’re sweet-talking and give me the business.”

Steve tickles him instead, and Bucky tries to slap his hands away, telling him to cut it out, in between gasps of laughter. It’s weird, this feeling. Like a coal glowing in his belly, a tightness in his chest, and with a shock, Bucky realises what this is. It’s happiness. He’s happy. He can’t remember the last time he felt this way.

He threads his fingers through Steve’s, and wraps his legs around Steve’s waist, using his hands and feet to bring Steve closer, until they’re nose to nose. Steve dips in for a kiss, and Bucky opens his mouth, letting Steve in . . . as he already has, in more than one way. I’m his, he realises, always his. Never gonna get away. Don’t want to, ever.

Days later, in the Wakandan jet, heading towards the Raft, Bucky leans back in one of the seats and stops pretending he isn’t looking at Steve, sitting at the controls, next to Sam. They look so good, side by side, the Captains America.

They gave Steve a suit Bucky’s only seen in pictures, mainly dark grey, with an even darker star on his chest. The fact that there are no bright stripes is the only thing which persuades Steve to accept; he’s very determined not even to hint at trying to take Sam’s place. But Bucky and Sam are equally insistent that he wears the new suit, with its triple layers of reinforced Kevlar, a new variety which Shuri’s team came up with, for extra bullet proofing.

There’s a lot of yelling the night before the mission, but they manage to persuade Steve to bring his shield along. Stubborn little shit. Not so little anymore, though.

While Bucky watches, Sam puts the jet in autopilot and starts explaining some of the controls to Steve. Bucky stretches, ending up with his arms behind his head. He’s looking forward to this. Weird.

Their jet runs almost completely silent. It’s also cloaked. When they arrive at the co-ordinates Shuri gave them, the Raft is on the surface. As they planned, it’s a shift change. They’re going to break in during that brief interval of surface time. Their window will also include Thor’s entry. As he won’t bother waiting for an open door, maybe it’s better if the Raft is on the surface. Steve keeps asking him how Thor’s gonna get there, and to be honest, Bucky only has a vague idea. However he does it, will probably be a sight to see.

They land on the deck in the middle of a storm – the rain is heavy, but there’s no lightning. Yet, Bucky thinks. So no alarms are raised as the three of them sneak in through the rain, into a door, following a guard, who doesn’t bother to turn to check whether he knows the people behind him, he’s so eager to get in out of the rain.

Bucky almost feels sorry for him as he shakes the rain off his cap, trying to wring it out. Almost. Then the guard turns around and his eyes widen, as he opens his mouth to yell a warning. But Steve’s too fast for him, grabbing him by the tac vest and slamming him against the wall of the small service corridor they’re in.

“Hey! Eyes here!” Sam snaps, and the guard looks at him, terrified. “Do you know who I am?” The guard licks his lips, which are trembling. Bucky hopes he’s considering what to say, ‘cos ‘a traitor’ or ‘an enemy of the state’ is not gonna go down well.

“Captain America?” the guard asks, and Sam grins.

“Good answer. Now, you gonna co-operate, or are my friends here gonna have to persuade you?”

Steve draws back, and Bucky folds his arms, making sure the guard sees the metal one. The guard’s eyes widen even further, and he looks at Bucky, terrified, Bucky, the only one of them who isn’t wearing some kind of mask or goggles. The guard nods, not trusting his voice, apparently.

Bucky feels it when Steve untenses, and realises that his sweetheart must feel sorry for this mook. He would roll his eyes, except he’s doing the stone-faced Winter Soldier thing.

“Is there somewhere we can lock you up, son?” That’s so Steve, Bucky thinks. He’s definitely in the wrong century for that kind of compassion.

“Yeah, why don’t we get him a warm blanket, too,” Bucky murmurs. “Come on, just cuff him – I’m sure he has something like that on him, don’t you?” He’s trying to keep the poison out of his voice, but it’s hard. It’s hard to feel something for these guys who’d lock him up and keep him locked up and beat him until he isn’t a person anymore, all in the name of making a living.

Steve gives him a puzzled look, but Sam doesn’t bother, just cuffs him behind his back. They find a small storeroom and shove him in, start walking towards the control room. There’s no-one there. They look at the monitors which show that the cells are mostly dark, with no guards around. So, they were right. This is a trap – a trap for them, with Banner as the bait.

They don’t say anything, though – exchange looks and make their way down into the cell area. The problem, Bucky knows without saying, is that they don’t know where Banner is. They’d been hoping he’d be in one of the cells, so they could get him out and leave a scorched earth behind them. Ok, yeah, they’d rescue the guards – who could maybe avoid a prison sentence if they ratted out the ones in charge – but the Raft was going down, literally. Still, finding Bruce is the priority, and it isn’t looking promising.

Steve and Bucky take a running jump down over the railings, and Sam rappels down, not wanting to open the wings in such an enclosed space. Bucky has his gun strapped to his back – the Paratrooper, that is. Everything else is strapped to his legs and the small of his back, where he also has a grenade he’s hidden from Steve – and so does Sam. Steve has his shield and his fists.

With an air of theatricality, the lights go on, one by one, and a small army pours out from side doors, holding automatic weapons, all pointed at the three of them.

Bucky wants to cheer. Finally, a fight! He tries to feel guilty that he’s going to beat people up, but he needs this.

The three of them move like they’ve been a team forever. Bucky punches and kicks, not bothering with the projectile weapons in a melee where a ricochet could easily kill one of his team-mates. He doesn’t break out his knives, though he’s tempted. But he doesn’t want to see Steve’s disappointed look.

Sam is doing the same, using the shield some, but mainly relying on hand to hand, because the guards can’t get enough distance to shoot.

Steve, though – he’s poetry in motion, the way he’s always been, and that’s not just because we’re doing it, Bucky thinks, already visualising Natasha’s sarcastic eyeroll. He kicks, punches, uses the shield in improbably moves that still work. He vaults over people, kicking them in the head on the way down, using the momentum to fling the shield like a discus, clipping heads on the way around.

The thing is, the guards keep coming. Bucky isn’t tired, neither is Steve, but Sam is unenhanced. Where the hell is Thor? Bucky’s just wondering whether they should call a strategic retreat, when, as if he’s been waiting for his cue, Secretary Ross strolls out, clapping, very slowly.

“Not the slow clap? Monster.” Shuri’s voice sounds absolutely disgusted in Bucky’s ear, and this time he doesn’t manage to supress an eye roll.

She must either be measuring his responses or she’s psychic, because she clears her throat and mutters “Release the drones,” then, in an even lower, and, paradoxically, more excited tone, “I always wanted to say that!”

Bucky makes sure everyone’s looking at Sam and Steve – they’re wearing the more eye-catching uniforms – before he flicks out his right hand in an expansive gesture. Five flying objects escape from his sleeve and zoom around the room, fixing themselves to various walls, while another two move towards vents in the ceiling and floor, heading towards the other levels, scanning for Banner.

Ross is looking very pleased with himself. “Could we have made it any more obvious, that this is a trap?” He glares at Bucky. “Your containment pod is up and waiting for you.”

Bucky snorts, proud of himself for his steady voice, and, he hopes, amused expression. “Is that what this is all about, Ross? I stood you up, back in ’16, and now you finally got me?”

“Kinda needy,” Sam chimes in, lips curling in a smile, or a sneer, as he leans back, arms still crossed.

Ross’s eyes narrow, but he ignores their banter. He gestures to a guard, who approaches, automatic rifle pointed at Sam, and Bucky – Bucky loses it. He feels the rage building in his stomach and chest, and as he stalks towards them, from the corner of his eye, glimpses a couple guards backing away, paling.

“No, you piece of shit!” Bucky snarls at the guard, ignoring Shuri’s urgent voice in his ear. He grabs the butt of the rifle in his metal hand, slamming it against his forehead, baring his teeth in a parody of a grin. “You point that thing at me, you hear?”

“Bucky!” Shuri’s getting frantic.

He’s pretty sure Sam’s about to grab his shoulder, and he won’t be responsible for his actions if that happens. Instead, the hand on his arm is Steve’s, and the familiarity of it drains most of the rage out of him. Not all, though.

“The cameras are up, Buck,” Steve says, not even raising his voice, and his words ring out like a bell, anyway.

Bucky lets go of the rifle, and the guard backs away, face a mask of terror, just as Ross says, “What are you talking about? What cameras?”

Steve takes over, as planned. “The cameras over there, there, and there,” he says, pointing to various corners of the room, “transmitting everything to a special emergency meeting of the U.N., who are going to be very interested in what’s happening here today, especially as _this,”_ he emphasises, swivelling an index finger to encircle the cells, “was not even implied in the Sokovia Accords.”

Ross doesn’t seem to take any of this in. Ok, Bucky thinks. Weird.

Instead, he looks Steve up and down, upper lip curling. “Who the hell are you?”

Bucky manages to control his expression. They’ve planned for this, even rehearsed it to a certain extent. Let’s see if this Steve is any better at lying through his teeth.

“I’m Steve Rogers,” Steve says, folding his arms, and that just makes Ross’s upper lip curl even further under his bristling mustache.

“Steve Rogers is dead – I had a report from his funeral.”

“And you believed it?” Steve’s tone is one of polite contempt, if such a thing is even possible. “I wanted to retire after Thanos, but apparently I don’t get to do that yet, especially when the _Secretary of State_ goes above and beyond his purview, arresting a Nobel prize-winning scientist, without cause.”

Ross’s sneer grows more pronounced. “Really. You’re Captain America.”

“No,” Steve answers, shaking his head. “This,” he says, gesturing at Sam, “is Captain America. I’m retired. Or, at least, I was.”

Ross narrows his eyes, probably thinking it makes him look intimidating. Then, he seems to reach a decision. He turns to the armed men standing all around.

“Detain them,” Ross says, gesturing at Bucky and Steve. He points at Sam. “Shoot him.”

The guard closest to Bucky gapes. “But sir, the cameras!”

Ross sneers. That seems to be his default expression right now.

“Even if there are cameras, that won’t matter very soon. U.S. Agent, a real patriot, and his team are rounding up traitors and terrorists as we speak. These men,” he continues, like he’s playing to an audience, “are trying to destabilise the U.S., to bring on chaos and destruction. Haven’t we had enough of that? It was bad enough, apocalyptic enough, when Thanos killed off half the world, over three billion people. But then, these wonderful Avengers wait five years, five _entire_ years, to bring everyone back. Is there anyone who doesn’t know people who were hurt, who died in this, this _restoration_?”

Sam is opening his mouth to speak, and Steve simply says, “That’s when we had the technology,” in his valiant effort to say what the Avenger Steve would have said, but Bucky’s frozen in place. Ross used very, very distinctive key words in his little speech.

Bucky puts a shaking hand on Sam’s arm, and he turns to look at him. Bucky shivers. “It’s HYDRA.”

Ross grins, leans forward, carefully facing away from where he obviously thinks the cameras are, murmurs, “Cut off one head . . . “

Then, louder, “Son, you’re obviously disturbed. I don’t know what this little farce was in aid of, but I’m going to give you and your friends another chance. Surrender now, and we’ll make sure you get a fair trial.”

This time, it’s Sam’s turn to interrupt, and he does it with a spontaneous, throaty chuckle. “Man, you HYDRA guys sure are stupid.”

Bucky barely has the chance to sigh in relief, that Sam believes him, that he takes his word for it, when he continues.

“Do you think we came alone? Just the three of us? Against all this?”

Bucky’s sure that Sam’s winding up to a snarky quip – he’s not going to tell anyone he came across Captain America staring into a locker room mirror, muttering ‘Here’s the _thunder!_ , no, that doesn’t work' – but finally, _finally_ their trump card shows up.

The storm outside hasn’t let up. No-one’s noticed, until now, when somehow, the lightning strikes are inside the room, arcing from one metal object to another, hitting the guards and knocking them out, still avoiding their little group. Ross looks wildly around him, as all his support vanishes, incapacitated. He's not holding a weapon, Bucky notices. Bet he wishes he had one, now. Too late, though. The blasting of thunder all around, inside the room, signals the end, for Ross.

Thor comes directly through the ceiling, through the reinforced metal sheets and ductwork and pipes, like a hot knife through butter, roaring as he lands. The sigil of Asgard, all glowing knotwork, flares up and vanishes, and in its midst a man is standing, wearing armor, a red cloak, one eye glowing blue, lightning coursing all around him. He’s holding a huge axe, and the cloak billows around him, even though there’s no wind.

“He really brings his special effects with him,” Sam mutters, pissed off that he didn’t get to deliver the line.

Ross is barely recovered, but he does his best, Bucky thinks. He points at Thor. “You, you . . . you can’t be here! The Accords . . . you didn’t sign . . . “

“Trouble me not with such trifles,” Thor begins, and Bucky interrupts, not without some trepidation.

“Banner’s in a lower level, in a lab! Shuri says they got him strapped down, and-“

But Thor is in a hurry, and simply goes through the floor. The Raft is starting to destabilize, and Bucky can hear various sounds of steel buckling under immense pressure.

Sam grins at Ross. “So. I’m gonna arrest your ass, now!”

“You don’t have the authority to arrest me . . . “ Ross’s voice is shaking, and Bucky would feel sorry for the guy, except he’s HYDRA. Is he never going to be free of these assholes? He shivers, even though he’s not cold.

“I’m making a citizen’s arrest, Mr. Ross. And I don’t really need to do this, but I always wanted to. So, here goes. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. Anything you say, can and will be used against you . . . “

Bucky lets Sam ramble on, and turns away, only to be stopped by Steve.

“You ok, Buck?”

Those words. Bucky knows Steve means well, but it’s like they send a torrent of icy water down his spine. _It’ll be ok, Buck,_ he can still hear the other Steve saying, and he looks up, into Steve’s worried eyes. He has to bite his tongue to beg Steve not to leave him. Instead, he nods, not trusting his voice. As he looks away, avoiding Steve’s eyes, Bucky notices that one of the guards is beginning to stir.

“Stay down!” His voice rings across the room. “The U.N. Peace Corps will be along any minute. They’ll process you. You’re in luck – they actually follow the Geneva Convention.”

Other guards, some already propping themselves up on their elbows, show mixed reactions – some are contemptuous. Those are the real hardasses, Bucky thinks, HYDRA hardliners.

“I read about that,” Steve says, and he sounds thoughtful. “It sounds good.” He glances up at Bucky. “Do people keep to it?”

“You’re asking the wrong guy,” Bucky shrugs. He wants to add more, that they certainly didn’t give a fuck about all that when they sent commandoes with shoot-to-kill orders after him in Berlin. But hey. Let bygones be bygones, right? Old Father O’ Shaughnessy would’ve told him to turn the other cheek, to forgive and forget.

He looks up at Steve, manages a smile. “I guess it depends on whether they consider a prisoner to be human or not.”

Steve nods, brows pulling together. They’re interrupted by Thor jumping up from a lower level, holding Banner in his arms like a bride. Bucky blinks once, twice, but what he’s seeing doesn’t change. No more green guy. Banner is now an average sized man in his forties, who only shares a vague resemblance with the gentle giant Bucky met, after the battle with Thanos.

Thor, now – he’s barely holding on to his temper. Sparks keep shooting off his fingers into the air.

“Where are the medics?” he growls.

Bucky points up. Shuri’s been muttering into his earpiece for a while, now. Another Wakandan jet has joined theirs, and is hovering in place, with a Doctor Cho on board, who’s treated Banner before. And this is a Banner who needs treatment. He’s barely conscious, but, as Bucky looks on, his eyes open into slivers, and he raises his hand, looking at it in confusion.

Ross has his hands cuffed behind his back, but, unfortunately, he isn’t gagged. “We did your friend a favour! We made him human again, not that abomination he was before, more monster than man!”

Sam looks at him in shock. ”You killed the Hulk?”

“No! At least, we don’t think so.”

Bucky can see that Thor’s holding onto his temper by a hair. But then he looks down at his friend, who he’s carrying like a sick puppy, and his face softens. He walks away a little, preparing to take off, and Bucky can hear his last words.

“Did I ever tell you about the hilarious trick my brother played on me, once? Well, he knew that I like snakes, so he turned into a snake and-“

The rest of the story is swallowed by the sound of objects flying around and breaking in the backdraft of his departure. Bucky has to smile. He knows that story. The number of times he’s heard it from Banner, makes him realise that the man has really been missing Thor.

Steve still looks worried. Bucky’s opening his mouth, when Sam taps his earpiece, and motions for quiet. He says _roger that,_ and then turns to them.

“So, the Peace Corps is here. Now, they’re not here for us, but let’s not make a tempting target to some trigger-happy jerk, right?”

Steve nods, and they leave the way they came, releasing the guard from before. Sam flies up to the jet, while Steve and Bucky climb up rope ladders.

“So, anyone want McDonalds?” Sam asks, as he punches in the co-ordinates. Bucky and Steve must make the same disgusted face, because Sam snorts in laughter. “Just messing with you old-timers!”

Bucky raises a middle finger. “So, what, we’re free now? All is forgiven?”

He knows his tone is pretty sharp, but he’s kinda pissed off right now.

“Bucky . . . “ Steve says, the tone – yeah, that’s the tone Steve used on him back in ’43! He’s just about to retort that he didn’t take it from Steve then, and he isn’t gonna take it now, when Sam takes over.

“Listen,” he says, sitting in front of Bucky and looking straight into his eyes. “Listen. I know this is fucked up. I know it’s fuckin’ shit. I know you feel like every time you get something, they take it away. But you gotta give T’Challa and the others a chance, man. They have more money than God, and that buys a hell of a lot of lawyers. Law firms, even. Do not fuckin’ take off again. ‘Cos this time we’ll both chase you, and we’ll be really pissed off.”

“What?” Steve’s glare could melt through steel. He cuts in before Bucky can ask if that’s another speech Sam practiced in front of a mirror. “You ran away from me – from the other guy, I mean. That’s not gonna cut it anymore, Buck. I got you now.”

“Ok, fine,” Bucky sighs. “Clearly, I’m not going on the run again.”

Once they land, on top of the Tower, where a Quinjet landing pad is being multi-purposed for all sorts of aircraft, Natasha is waiting for them, arms crossed, small face set in a mutinous frown. Someone got her a teen-sized version of the Black Widow suit. Bucky’s gonna have words.

“And?” she says, when they’re the only ones getting off the jet.

Steve smiles, and she kind of sags – the relief is too much for her. “He needed some medical attention, so he’s on the other jet, with Doctor Cho.”

Natasha looks to the side, blinking rapidly, holding back the sniffles. They go inside, because the jet’s gotta leave space for the next one, and a Dora has been waiting to fly it away. As soon as it takes off, another one lands, and Natasha turns to look, eyes wide and glistening. Thor bounds out, and Banner follows him at a more sedate pace.

“He’s . . . back? Back to being Bruce?” She sounds shocked.

The sliding doors open to let Thor and Banner in, and Natasha hugs Banner, only for her feet to leave the ground as he suddenly grows into a seven foot green figure. Bucky’s heard a description of the transformation before, and is nervous – isn’t the Hulk supposed to be uncontrollable? But Natasha is still clinging to the Hulk’s neck, and the giant green figure shows no inclination to go on a rampage.

Thor looks from one to the other, puzzled. Then he turns to them.

“Does Bruce have a child? Why was I not informed?”

Natasha, eyes streaming with tears, looks at him. “Hey there, handsome. Missed me?”

Just like that, his eyes widen and his mouth falls open in shock. “Natasha?”

“WHY NAT SMALL NOW?” the Hulk rumbles.

Bucky and Steve, who’ve only ever heard the big green guy speak like a normal man, exchange looks. Sam puts a hand on Bucky’s arm and gestures that they should probably go, and yeah. This is a private moment.

When the elevator opens, there’s a pug-nosed man in his forties waiting to reach their floor. He looks at each of them in turn.

“Wilson, my man! The outfit suits you! Hey Steve, I . . . thought you got old.” He looks puzzled, then shakes it off. “Barnes.”

“Barton,” Bucky answers. He never had much contact with the guy.

“They told me Ross tried to lock Bruce up, and – “ Barton catches sight of the group just inside the platform, who’re in a strange multi-limbed, multi-colored group hug. His brows draw together. “Who’s the kid?”

“Yeah,” Sam answers, drawing out the word. “It’s a long story. Why don’t you go over there, find out? We need some shut eye. Don’t know about you guys, but I’m beat.”

Barton takes that in, looks at the Avengers again, turns back to them. “Steve? Aren’t you coming?”

Bucky winces. Steve smiles, his eyes kind.

“That’s a long story too. Doctor Banner will explain everything, but I’m not this universe’s Steve. But that’s not important right now. You need to join them – they’ve got a lot to tell you.”

Barton nods, clearly distracted by the little girl with long red hair. Bucky presses the elevator button as soon as Barton clears the opening, not wanting any more questions they can’t answer. Then he turns to face Sam, who, for once, isn’t meeting his eyes. Steve, wisely, keeps out of the way.

“You called Barton.” Bucky doesn’t mean to sound accusatory, it just comes out that way.

Not that it bothers Sam, any. “Yup.”

“You didn’t warn Natasha.”

“Nope.”

Bucky catches Steve’s eyes, and Steve shrugs. He’s about to read Sam the riot act, when Sam cracks.

“Seriously man, why the secrecy? What were we waiting for? Natasha’s clearly stuck as a kid for a few years, so why not call her best fucking friend in all the world, who needed to know she wasn’t dead? Don’t tell me you wouldn’t want to know, even if Steve here was a kid again.”

Bucky’s lost for words. Yeah, of course he’d want to know. He imagines a past in which Steve never came back from returning the stones – the idea of never knowing the truth . . . he shudders.

“Still, it wasn’t her choice to call Barton.”

“I know that. But she was so lonely; yeah, she had the kittens, but she needed more. None of us know her well enough to get past the whole kid thing. Barton is different.”

Steve frowns. “Were they a couple?”

“No,” Sam says, but he lengthens the word, ending in a question. “It’s never really been clear to me, but I know they were family. And I definitely know he felt guilty about what happened to her on Vormir. He deserved to know, and make his choice.”

Bucky nods, finally. No arguing with that. He stumbles a little, coming out of the elevator on their floor, and Steve grabs his arm. That’s it – he’s done. The whole mission, the rescue, it took its toll, and he needs . . . he _needs._ He grabs Steve by the neck and lays one on him, pushing him hard against the wall, and Steve doesn’t even resist for a second. Big arms like steel girders clamp around his waist, pulling him close for delicious friction, just as Steve’s mouth opens, drawing him in.

A faint ‘Ok, I guess I don’t need to see any of this,’ signals Sam speed-walking to his own apartment. Bucky’s lost, lost in Steve and that’s all he needs or wants, for now. Forever.

A few weeks later, they’re walking in Central Park on a beautiful sunny day – the air is so crisp and clear, the light is warm and dappled through the trees, that Bucky keeps having to pinch himself, checking that he’s not dreaming. The day he told Sam that he worries he’s actually still in cryo, and this is all just a dream, was the day Sam set up therapy sessions for him. Steve too, but separate for now. Steve tries to argue that he doesn’t need all that, and that during the war they didn’t have time for anything but ‘walk it off, soldier’. No-one’s listening, though. Not even Bucky.

Steve walks towards him, holding two ice creams, one of which is already dripping all over his hand. Bucky’d lick it off if they were at home, and he smirks at Steve, who blushes, clearly reading it all over his face. Steve grabs his hand and they walk on, looking for a good bench where Steve can get some sketching done. Knowing Steve, finding a good place will take hours – he’s real picky with his light.

Bucky looks down at their joined hands and smiles. Ever since Steve found out that men being together, being married, was not the instant prison sentence, or beating it would have been in their time, he took every opportunity to hold on to Bucky, as tight as he could. They get the occasional dirty look from people who don’t think Steve Rogers should be doing that kind of thing, especially not with an ex-assassin and possible traitor. But Steve is practised in ignoring people who try to tell him what he _should_ be doing instead of what he is. He’s been doing that all his life.

They finish their ice cream and walk some more, until Steve spots the perfect bench, under some trees, with a view across the reservoir. Just as Steve breaks into a determined stride to make sure no-one else takes their spot, there’s a little commotion behind them, and a winged figure flies over their heads and lands in front of them.

“Oh, no . . . “ Steve sighs.

“Oh, yes,” Sam answers, throwing two backpacks and what looks like a cymbal case at their feet. “We got a situation in Long Island. No one else is available. Suit up.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. He picks up his pack – he knows it’s his because some wag (Sam, he knows it’s Sam) bought one with a big red star embroidered on it – and glares.

“Where, oh great genius Captain America, sir? We gonna strip down in the park?”

“Nah, man – quinjet comin’,” Sam throws off, and Bucky’s even more irritated.

He wants to argue some more, but a crowd is gathering, phones are coming out, and some teens (and not only teens) are taking selfies with Steve, who can never, _ever_ say no, to anyone.

Just as Bucky’s gonna punt a few handsy kids off Steve, a strong, hot wind blasts everyone sideways; finally, the quinjet is hovering overhead. Sam flies Steve up, Bucky takes a running jump and hangs onto a rope ladder, and they’re inside. Lang is at the controls, and he grins at them, throwing off a terrible salute.

Steve turns to Bucky, looking worried.

“Listen Buck, I’m sorry – I didn’t think it would be so soon, when I agreed to work with Sam and Director Fury.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. He knows his Steve. “You’re not sorry, ya big lug! You love this.”

Steve’s cheeks turn a faint pink, as he pulls the pants of his stealth suit on. “Yeah, Buck. I’m with my best guy and my new friends, and we’re doing good work. Are you mad?”

Bucky considers it. He shakes his head, slinging his arm around Steve’s neck. Steve’s eyes brighten in recognition, remembering that day in ’43, their last day together before the war really began, for them. They’re so close they could kiss, now, and they would, except they’re interrupted by a voice from the cockpit.

“Save it for later, guys. We got work to do.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, ignores Sam, and grins at Steve, dropping a quick, stealthy kiss. “Sure, Cap. Let’s go to work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can tell by the ending, I'm clearly not one of those fans who want Steve and Bucky to retire to a goat farm in Wakanda! I want what I've always wanted - the Avengers as a team, kicking ass and taking names, with movie and pizza nights in between. And that's how it'll be, with Avengers 2.0, now with added Bucky.
> 
> Hope everyone liked the conclusion!


End file.
